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or  ILLINOIS 

817 
1891 


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ifliS  SKETCH-BOOK 

OF 

GEOFFREY  CRAYON.  GENT 


"  I  have  no  wife  nor  children,  good  or  bad,  to  provide  for.  A  mere 
spectator  of  other  men's  fortunes  and  adventures,  and  how  they  play  their 
parts  ;  which,  methinks,  are  diversely  presented  unto  me,  as  from  a 
common  theatre  or  scene." — Burton. 


THE  AUTHOR'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIMSELF. 

I  am  of  this  mind  with  Homer,  that  as  the  snaile  that  crept  out  of  her 
shel  was  turned  eftsoones  into  a  toad,  and  thereby  was  forced  to  make  a 
stoole  to  sit  on  ;  so  the  traveller  that  stragleth  from  his  owne  country  is 
in  a  short  time  transformed  into  so  monstrous  a  shape,  that  he  is  faine  to 
alter  his  mansion  with  his  manners,  and  to  live  where  he  can,  not  where 
he  would. — Lyly's  Euphues. 

I  WAS  always  fond  of  visiting  new  scenes,  and  observing 
strange  characters  and  manners.  Even  when  a  mere  child  I 
began  my  travels,  and  made  many  tours  of  discovery  into 
foreign  parts  and  unknown  regions  of  my  native  city,  to  the 
frequent  alarm  of  my  parents,  and  the  emolument  of  the 
town  crier.  As  I  grew  into  boyhood,  I  extended  the  range 
of  my  observations.  My  holiday  afternoons  were  spent  in 
rambles  about  the  surrounding  country.  I  made  myself  fa- 
miliar with  all  its  places  famous  in  history  or  fable.  I  knew 
every  spot  where  a  murder  or  robbery  had  been  committed^ 
or  a  ghost  seen.  I  visited  the  neighboring  villages,  and 
added  greatly  to  my  stock  of  knowledge,  by  noting  their 
habits  and  customs,  and  conversing  with  their  savages  and 
great  men.    I  even  journeyed  one  long  summer's  day  to  the 

(9) 


to  WORKS  0^  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 

summit  of  the  most  distant  hill,  from  whence  I  stretched  my 
€ye  over  many  a  mile  of  terra  incognita,  and  was  astonished 
to  find  how  vast  a  globe  I  inhabited. 

This  rambling  propensity  strengthened  with  my  years. 
Books  of  voyages  and  travels  became  my  passion,  and  in 
devouring  their  contents,  I  neglected  the  regular  exercises  of 
the  school.  How  wistfully  would  I  wander  about  the  pier 
heads  in  fine  weather,  and  watch  the  parting  ships,  bound  to 
distant  climes — with  what  longing  eyes  would  I  gaze  after 
their  lessening  sails,  and  waft  myself  in  imagination  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth ! 

Farther  reading  and  thinking,  though  they  brought  this 
vague  inclination  into  more  reasonable  bounds,  only  served 
to  make  it  more  decided.  I  visited  various  parts  of  my  own 
country ;  and  had  I  been  merely  influenced  by  a  love  of  fine 
scenery,  I  should  have  felt  little  desire  to  seek  elsewhere  its 
gratification  :  for  on  no  country  had  the  charms  of  nature 
been  more  prodigally  lavished.  Her  mighty  lakes,  like 
oceans  of  liquid  silver  ;  her  mountains,  with  their  bright  aerial 
tints  ;  her  valleys,  teeming  with  wild  fertility ;  her  tremen- 
dous cataracts,  thundering  in  their  solitudes  ;  her  boundless 
plains,  waving  with  spontaneous  verdure;  her  broad  deep 
"rivers,  rolling  in  solemn  silence  to  the  ocean  ;  her  trackless 
forests,  where  vegetation  puts  forth  all  its  magnificence  ;  her 
•skies,  kindling  with  the  magic  of  summer  clouds  and  glorious 
sunshine  : — no,  never  need  an  American  look  beyond  his  own 
country  for  the  sublime  and  beautiful  of  natural  scenery. 

But  Europe  held  forth  all  the  charms  of  storied  and  poet- 
ical association.  There  were  to  be  seen  the  masterpieces  c^f 
art,  the  refinements  of  highly  cultivated  society,  the  quainv 
peculiarities  of  ancient  and  local  custom.  My  native  country 
was  full  of  youthful  promise  ;  Europe  was  rich  in  the  accumu- 
lated treasures  of  age.  Her  very  ruins  told  the  history  of 
times  gone  by,  and  every  mouldering  stone  was  a  chronicle. 
I  longed  to  wander  over  the  scenes  of  renowned  achievem.ent 
—to  tread,  as  it  were,  in  the  footsteps  of  antiquity — to  loiter 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YOJST,  GENT.  xv 

about  the  ruined  castle — to  meditate  on  the  falling  tower — to 
escape,  in  short,  from  the  commonplace  realities  of  the  present, 
and  lose  myself  among  the  shadowy  grandeurs  of  the  past. 

I  had,  besides  all  this,  an  earnest  desire  to  see  the  great 
men  of  the  earth.  We  have,  it  is  true,  our  great  men  in 
America:  not  a  city  but  has  an  ample  share  of  them.  1 
have  mingled  among  them  in  my  time,  and  been  almost  with- 
ered by  the  shade  into  which  they  cast  me ;  for  there  is  noth- 
ing so  baleful  to  a  small  man  as  the  shade  of  a  great  one, 
particularly  the  great  man  of  a  city.  But  I  was  anxious  to 
see  the  great  men  of  Europe  ;  for  I  had  read  in  the  works 
of  various  philosophers,  that  all  animals  degenerated  in 
America,  and  man  among  the  number.  A  great  man  of  Eu- 
rope, thought  I,  must  therefore  be  as  superior  to  a  great  man 
of  America,  as  a  peak  of  the  Alps  to  a  highland  of  the  Hud- 
son ;  and  in  this  idea  I  was  confirmed,  by  observing  the  com- 
parative importance  and  swelling  magnitude  of  many  English 
travellers  among  us,  who,  I  was  assured,  were  very  little  peo- 
ple in  their  own  country.  I  will  visit  this  land  of  wonders, 
thought  I,  and  see  the  gigantic  race  from  which  I  am  degen- 
erated. 

It  has  been  either  my  good  or  evil  lot  to  have  my  roving 
passion  gratified.  I  have  wandered  through  different  coun- 
tries and  witnessed  many  of  the  shifting  scenes  of  life.  I  can- 
not say  that  I  have  studied  them  with  the  eye  of  a  philosopher, 
but  rather  with  the  same  sauntering  gaze  with  which  humble 
lovers  of  the  picturesque  stroll  from  the  window  of  one  print- 
shop  to  another ;  caught  sometimes  by  the  delineations  of 
beauty,  sometimes  by  the  distortions  of  caricature,  and  some- 
times by  the  loveliness  of  landscape.  As  it  is  the  fashion  for 
modern  tourists  to  travel  pencil  in  hand,  and  bring  home 
their  portfolios  filled  with  sketches,  I  am  disposed  to  get  up  a 
few  for  the  entertainment  of  my  friends.  When,  however,  I 
look  over  the  hints  and  memorandums  I  have  taken  down  for 
the  purpose,  my  heart  almost  fails  me,  at  finding  how  my 
idle  humor  has  led  me  aside  from  the  great  object  studied  by 


12 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 


every  regular  traveller  who  would  make  a  book.  I  fear  I 
shall  give  equal  disappointment  with  an  unlucky  landscape- 
painter,  who  had  travelled  on  the  continent,  but  following  the 
bent  of  his  vagrant  inclination,  had  sketched  in  nooks,  and 
corners,  and  by-places.  His  sketch-book  was  accordingly 
crowded  with  cottages,  and  landscapes,  and  obscure  ruins  j 
but  he  had  neglected  to  paint  St.  Peter's,  or  the  Coliseum  \ 
the  cascade  of  Terni,  or  the  bay  of  Naples  ;  and  had  not  a 
single  glacier  or  volcano  in  his  whole  collection. 


^ETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT. 


THE  VOYAGE^ 

Ships,  ships,  I  will  descrie  you 
Amidst  the  main, 

I  will  come  and  try  you. 

What  you  are  protecting. 

And  projecting, 

What's  your  end  and  aim* 
One  goes  abroad  for  mercbandise  and  trading, 
Another  stays  to  keep  his  country  from  invading, 
A  third  is  coming  home  with  rich  and  wealthy  lading,. 
Hallo  !  my  fancie,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Old  PoEivr. 

To  an  American  visiting  Europe,  the  long  voyage  he  has' 
to  make  is  an  excellent  preparative.  The  temporary  absence 
of  worldly  scenes  and  employments  produces  a  state  of  mind 
peculiarly  fitted  to  receive  new  and  vivid  impressions.  The 
vast  space  of  waters  that  separates  the  hemispheres  is  like  a 
blank  page  in  existence.  There  is  no  gradual  transition  by 
which,  as  in  Europe,  the  features  and  population  of  one 
country  blend  almost  imperceptibly  with  those  of  another. 
From  the  moment  you  lose  sight  of  the  land  you  have  left,  all 
is  vacancy,  until  you  step  on  the  opposite  shore,  and  are 
launched  at  once  into  the  bustle  and  novelties  of  another 
world. 

In  travelling  by  land  there  is  a  continuity  of  scene,  and  a 
connected  succession  of  persons  and  incidents,  that  carry  on 
the  story  of  life,  and  lessen  the  effect  of  absence  and  separa- 
tion. We  drag,  it  is  true,  a  lengthening  chain  at  each  re- 
move of  our  pilgrimage  ;  but  the  chain  is  unbroken  ;  we  can 
trace  it  back  link  by  link  ;  and  we  feel  that  the  last  of  them 
stUl  grapples  us  to  home.    But  a  wide  sea  voyage  severs  us 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


^at  once.  It  fnakes  us  conscious  of  being  cast  loose  from 
the  secure  anchorage  of  settled  life,  and  sent  adrift  upon  a 
doubtful  world.  It  interposes  a  gulf,  not  merely  imaginary, 
but  real,  between  us  and  our  homes — a  gulf,  subject  to  ten> 
pest,  and  fear,  and  uncertainty,  that  makes  distance  palpable, 
and  return  precarious.  / 

Such,  at  least,  was  the  case  with  myself.    As  I  saw  the  * 
last  blue  line  of  my  native  land  fade  away  like  a  cloud  in  the 
ihorizon,  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  closed  one  volume  of  the  world  i 
and  its  concerns,  and  had  time  for  meditation,  before  I  opened  ^ 
another.    That  land,  too,  now  vanishing  from  my  view,  which  j 
contained  all  that  was  most  dear  to  me  in  life;  what  vicissi- 
tudes might  occur  in  it — what  changes  might  take  place  in 
me  before  I  should  visit  it  again  !    Who  can  tell,  when  he  sets  i 
forth  to  wander,  whither  he  may  be  driven  by  the  uncertain  ' 
currents  of  existence  ;  or  when  he  may  return ;  or  whether  it  | 
may  be  ever  his  lot  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  his  childhood  ?  ' 

I  said,  that  at  sea  all  is  vacancy  ;  I  should  correct  the  ex-  ' 
pression.    To  one  given  to  day  dreaming,  and  fond  of  losing 
himself  in  reveries,  a  sea  voyage  is  full  of  subjects  for  medi-  ) 
tation ;  but  then  they  are  the  wonders  of  the  deep  and  of  the 
air,  and  rather  tend  to  abstract  the  mind  from  worldly  themes.  | 
I  delighted  to  loll  over  the  quarter-railing  or  climb  to  the 
main-top,  of  a  calm  day,  and  muse  for  hours  together  on 
the  tranquil  bosom  of  a  summer's  sea ; — to  gaze  upon  the 
piles  of  golden  clouds  just  peering  above  the  horizon  ;  fancy 
them  some  fairy  realms,  and  people  them  with  a  creation  of 
my  own  ; — to  watch  the  gentle  undulating  billows,  rolling 
their  silver  volumes,  as  if  to  die  away  on  those  happy  shores. 

There  was  a  delicious  sensation  of  mingled  security  and 
awe  with  which  I  looked  down,  from  my  giddy  height,  on  the 
monsters  of  the  deep  at  their  uncouth  gam^bols  :  shoals  of 
porpoises  tumbling  about  the  bow  of  the  ship  ;  the  grampus, 
slowly  heaving  his  huge  form  above  the  surface ;  or  the 
ravenous  shark,  darting,  like  a  spectre,  through  the  blue 
waters.    My  ima^rination  would  coniure  up  all  that  I  had 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  15 

tleard  or  read  of  the  watery  world  beneath  me :  ot  the  finny 
herds  that  roam  its  fathomless  valleys  ;  of  the  shapeless  mon- 
sters that  lurk  among  the  very  foundations  of  the  earth,  and 
of  those  wild  phantasms  that  swell  the  tales  of  fishermen 
and  sailors. 

Sometimes  a  distant  sail,  gliding  along  the  edge  of  the 
ocean,  would  be  another  theme  of  idle  speculation.  How  in- 
teresting this  fragment  of  a  world,  hastening  to  rejoin  the 
^reat  mass  of  existence  !  What  a  glorious  monument  of 
human  invention  ;  that  has  thus  triumphed  over  wind  and 
^-ave  ;  has  brought  the  ends  of  the  world  into  communion ; 
has  established  an  interchange  of  blessings,  pouring  into  the 
sterile  regions  of  the  north  all  the  luxuries  of  the  south  ;  has 
diffused  the  light  of  knowledge,  and  the  charities  of  culti- 
vated life  ;  and  has  thus  bound  together  those  scattered 
portions  of  the  human  race,  between  which  nature  seemed  to 
have  thrown  an  insurmountable  barrier. 

We  one  c.ci  y  descried  some  shapeless  object  drifting  at 
a  distance.  At  sea,  everything  that  breaks  the  monotony 
of  the  surrounding  expanse  attracts  attention.  It  proved 
to  be  the  mast  of  a  ship  that  must  have  been  completely 
wrecked ;  for  there  were  the  remains  of  handkerchiefs,  by 
which  some  of  the  crew  had  fastened  themselves  to  this  spar, 
to  prevent  their  being  washed  off  by  the  waves.  There  was 
no  trace  by  which  the  name  of  the  ship  could  be  ascertained. 
The  wreck  had  evidently  drifted  about  for  many  months ; 
clusters  of  shell-fish  had  fastened  about  it,  and  long  sea- weeds 
flaunted  at  its  sides.  But  where,  thought  I,  is  the  crew  ? 
Their  struggle  has  long  been  over — they  have  gone  down 
amidst  the  roar  of  the  tempest — their  bones  lie  whitening 
among  the  caverns  of  the  deep.  Silence,  oblivion,  like  the 
waves,  have  closed  over  them,  and  no  one  can  tell  the  story 
of  their  end.  What  sighs  have  been  wafted  after  that  ship  ; 
what  prayers  offered  up  at  the  deserted  fireside  of  home  i 
How  often  has  the  mistress,  the  wife,  the  mother,  pored 
over  the  daily  news,  to  catch  some  casual  intelligence  of  this 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON-  JRVING, 


rover  of  the  deep!  How  has  expectation  darkened  int€^ 
anxiety — anxiety  into  dread — and  dread  into  despair  !  Alas  t 
not  one  memento  shall  ever  return  for  love  to  cherish.  All 
that  shall  ever  be  known,  is  that  she  sailed  from  her  port, 
and  was  never  heard  of  more  !  " 

The  sight  of  this  wreck,  as  usual,  gave  rise  to  many  dismal 
anecdotes.  This  was  particularly  the  case  in  the  evening, 
when  the  weather,  which  had  hitherto  been  fair,  began  to 
look  wild  and  threatening,  and  gave  indications  of  one  of 
those  sudden  storms  that  will  sometimes  break  in  upon  the 
serenity  of  a  summer  voyage.  As  we  sat  round  the  dull  light 
of  a  lamp,  in  the  cabin,  that  made  the  gloom  more  ghastly, 
every  one  had  his  tale  of  shipwreck  and  disaster.  I  was 
particularly  struck  with  a  short  one  related  by  the  captain  : 

"  As  I  was  once  sailing,"  said  he,  "  in  a  fine,  stout  ship, 
across  the  banks  of  Newfoundland,  one  of  those  heavy  fogs 
that  prevail  in  those  parts  rendered  it  impossible  for  us  to 
see  far  a-head,  even  in  the  daytime ;  but  at  nio^ht  the  weather 
was  so  thick  that  we  could  not  distinguisri  any  object  at 
twice  the  length  of  the  ship.  I  kept  lights  at  the  mast-head, 
and  a  constant  watch  forward  to  look  out  for  fishing  smacks, 
which  are  accustomed  to  lie  at  anchor  on  the  banks.  The 
wind  was  blowing  a  smacking  breeze,  and  we  were  going  at 
a  great  rate  through  the  water.  Suddenly  the  watch  gave 
the  alarm  of  *  a  sail  a-head  ! ' — it  was  scarcely  uttered  before 
we  were  upon  her.  She  was  a  small  schooner,  at  anchor, 
with  a  broadside  toward  us.  The  crew  were  all  asleep, 
and  had  neglected  to  hoist  a  light.  We  struck  her  just  a- 
mid-ships.  The  force,  the  size,  the  weight  of  our  vessel, 
bore  her  down  below  the  waves ;  we  passed  over  her  and 
were  hurried  on  our  course.  As  the  crashing  wreck  was 
sinking  beneath  us,  I  had  a  glimpse  of  two  or  three  half- 
naked  wretches,  rushing  from  her  cabin  ;  they  just  started 
from  their  beds  to  be  swallowed  shrieking  by  the  waves.  I 
heard  their  drowning  cry  mingling  with  the  wind.  The  blas"^ 
that  bore  it  to  our  ears,  swept  us  out  of  all  farther  hearing 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT,  17 


I  shall  never  forget  that  cry  !  It  was  some  time  before  we 
could  put  the  ship  about,  she  was  under  such  headway.  We 
returned  as  nearly  as  we  could  guess,  to  the  place  where  the 
smack  had  anchored.  We  cruised  about  for  several  hours 
in  the  dense  fog.  We  fired  signal-guns,  and  listened  if  we 
might  hear  the  halloo  of  any  survivors  ;  but  all  was  silent — 
we  never  saw  or  heard  anything  of  them  more.'' 

I  confess  these  stories,  for  a  time,  put  an  end  to  all  my 
fine  fancies.  The  storm  increased  with  the  night.  The  sea 
was  lashed  into  tremendous  confusion.  There  was  a  fearful, 
sullen  sound  of  rushing  waves  and  broken  surges.  Deep 
called  unto  deep.  At  times  the  black  volume  of  clouds  over- 
head seemed  rent  asunder  by  flashes  lightning  that  quiv- 
ered along  the  foaming  billows,  and  made  the  succeeding 
darkness  doubly  terrible.  The  thunders  bellowed  over  the 
wild  waste  of  waters,  and  were  echoed  and  prolonged  by  the 
mountain  waves.  As  I  saw  the  ship  staggering  and  plunging 
among  these  roaring  caverns,  it  seemed  miraculous  that  she 
regained  her  balance,  or  preserved  her  buoyancy.  Her  yards 
would  dip  into  the  water  ;  her  bow  was  almost  buried  beneath 
the  waves.  Sometimes  an  impending  surge  appeared  ready 
to  overwhelm  her,  and  nothing  but  a  dexterous  movement  of 
the  helm  preserved  her  from  the  shock. 

When  I  retired  to  my  cabin,  the  awful  scene  still  fol- 
lowed me.  The  whistling  of  the  wind  through  the  rigging 
sounded  like  funereal  wailings.  The  creaking  of  the  masts  ; 
the  straining  and  groaning  of  bulk-heads,  as  the  ship  labored 
in  the  weltering  sea,  were  frightful.  As  I  heard  the  waves 
rushing  along  the  side  of  the  ship,  and  roaring  in  my  very 
car,  it  seemed  as  if  Death  were  raging  round  this  floating 
prison,  seeking  for  his  prey :  the  mere  starting  of  a  nail,  the 
yawning  of  a  seam,  might  give  him  entrance. 

A  fine  day,  however,  with  a  tranquil  sea  and  favoring 
breeze,  soon  put  all  these  dismal  reflections  to  flight.  It  is 
impossible  to  resist  the  gladdening  influence  of  fine  weather 
and  fair  wind  at  sea.    When  the  ship  is  decked  out  in  all 

-3 


ig  ORA'S  OF  WASHINGTON-  IRVING 

her  canvas,  every  sail  swelled,  and  careering  gayly  over  the 
curling  waves,  how  lofty,  how  gallant,  she  appears — how  she 
seems  to  lord  it  over  the  deep  !  I  might  fill  a  volume  with 
the  reveries  of  a  sea  voyage  ;  for  with  me  it  is  almost  a  con- 
tinual reverie — but  it  is  time  to  get  to  shore. 

It  was  a  fine  sunny  morning  when  the  thrilling  cry  of 
land  !  "  was  given  from  the  mast-head.  None  but  those 
who  have  experienced  it  can  form  an  idea  of  the  delicious 
throng  of  sensations  which  rush  into  an  American's  bosom 
when  he  first  comes  in  sight  of  Europe.  There  is  a  volume 
of  associations  v^ith  the  very  name.  It  is  the  land  of  promise, 
teeming  wdth  everything  of  which  his  childhood  has  heard,, 
or  on  which  his  stud^   is  years  have  pondered. 

From  that  time,  until  the  moment  of  arrival,  it  was  all 
feverish  excitement.  The  ships  of  war,  that  prowled  like 
guardian  giants  along  the  coast ;  the  headlands  of  Ireland,, 
stretching  out  into  the  channel  ;  the  Welsh  mountains  tower- 
ing into  the  clouds  !  all  w^ere  objects  of  intense  interest.  As 
w^e  sailed  up  the  Mersey,  I  reconnoitred  the  shores  with  a 
telescope.  My  eye  dwelt  with  delight  on  neat  cottages,  with 
their  trim  shrubberies  and  green  grass-plots.  I  saw  the 
mouldering  ruin  of  an  abbey  overrun  with  ivy,  and  the  taper 
spire  of  a  village  church  rising  from  the  brow  of  a  neighbor- 
ing hill — all  were  characteristic  of  England. 

The  tide  and  wind  were  so  favorable,  that  the  ship  was 
enabled  to  come  at  once  to  the  pier.  It  was  thronged  with 
people  ;  some  idle  lookers-on,  others  eager  expectants  of 
friends  or  relations.  I  could  distinguish  the  merchant  to 
whom  the  ship  was  consigned.  I  knew  him  by  his  calculate 
ing  brow  and  restless  air.  His  hands  were  thrust  into  his 
pockets  ;  he  was  whistling  thoughtfully,  and  walking  to  and 
fro,  a  small  space  having  been  accorded  him  by  the  crowd,  in 
deference  to  his  temporary  importance.  There  were  repeated 
cheerings  and  salutations  iiiterchanged  between  the  shore 
and  the  ship,  as  friends  happened  to  recognize  each  other.  I 
particularly  noticed  one  young  woman  of  humble  dress,  b>  t 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYOiY,  GENT. 

interesting  demeanor.  She  was  leaning  forward  from  among 
the  crowd  ;  her  eye  hurried  over  the  ship  as  it  neared  the 
shore,  to  catch  some  wished-for  countenance.  She  seemed 
disappointed  and  agitated  ;  when  I  heard  a  faint  voice  call 
her  name. — It  was  from  a  poor  sailor  who  had  been  ill  all 
the  voyage,  and  had  excited  the  sympathy  of  every  one  on 
board.  When  the  weather  was  fine,  his  messmates  had 
spread  a  mattress  for  him  on  deck  in  the  shade,  but  of  late 
his  illness  had  so  increased  that  he  had  taken  to  his  ham- 
mock, and  only  breathed  a  wish  that  he  might  see  his  wife 
before  he  died.  He  had  been  helped  on  deck  as  we  came 
up  the  river,  and  was  now  leaning  against  the  shrouds,  with 
a  countenance  so  wasted,  so  pale,  so  ghastly,  that  it  was  no 
wonder  even  the  eye  of  affection  did  not  recognize  him.  But 
at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  her  eye  darted  on  his  features  :  it 
read,  at  once,  a  whole  volume  of  sorrow  j  she  clasped  her 
hands,  uttered  a  faint  shriek,  and  stood  wringing  them  in 
silent  agony. 

All  now  was  hurry  and  bustle.  The  meetings  of  ac- 
quaintances— the  greetings  of  friends — the  consultations  of 
men  of  business.  I  alone  was  solitary  and  idle.  I  had  no 
friend  to  meet,  no  cheering  to  receive.  I  stepped  upon  the 
land  of  my  forefathers — but  felt  that  I  was  a  stranger  in  the 
land. 


20 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


ROSCOE. 

—In  the  service  of  mankind  to  be 
A  guardian  god  below  ;  still  to  employ 
The  mind's  brave  ardor  in  heroic  aims, 
Such  as  may  raise  us  o'er  the  grovelling  herd, 
And  make  us  shine  for  ever — that  is  life. 

Thomson. 

One  of  the  first  places  to  which  a  stranger  is  taken  in 
Liverpool,  is  the  Athenaeum.  It  is  established  on  a  liberal 
and  judicious  plan  ;  it  contains  a  good  library,  and  spacious 
reading-room,  and  is  the  great  literary  resort  of  the  place* 
Go  there  at  what  hour  you  may,  you  are  sure  to  find  it  filled 
with  grave-looking  personages,  deeply  absorbed  in  the  study 
of  newspapers. 

As  I  w^as  once  visiting  this  haunt  of  the  learned,  my 
attention  was  attracted  to  a  person  just  entering  the  room. 
He  was  advanced  in  life,  tall,  and  of  a  form  that  might  once 
have  been  commanding,  but  it  was  a  little  bowed  by  time — 
perhaps  by  care.  He  had  a  noble  Roman  style  of  coun- 
tenance ;  a  head  that  would  have  pleased  a  painter;  and 
though  some  slight  furrows  on  his  brow  showed  that  wasting 
thought  had  been  busy  there,  yet  his  eye  still  beamed  with 
the  fire  of  a  poetic  soul.  There  was  something  in  his  whole 
appearance  that  indicated  a  being  of  a  different  order  from, 
the  bustling  race  around  him. 

I  inquired  his  name,  and  was  informed  that  it  was  RoscoE. 
I  drew  back  with  an  involuntary  feeling  of  veneration.  This, 
then,  was  an  author  of  celebrity ;  this  was  one  of  those  men 


7 

SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  21 

whose  voices  have  gone  forth  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  ;  with 
whose  minds  I  have  communed  even  in  the  solitudes  of 
America.  Accustomed,  as  we  are  in  our  country,  to  know 
European  writers  only  by  their  works,  we  cannot  conceive 
of  them,  as  of  other  men,  engrossed  by  trial  or  sordid  pur- 
suits, and  jostling  with  the  crowd  of  common  minds  in  the 
dusty  paths  of  life.  They  pass  before  our  imaginations  like 
superior  beings,  radiant  with  the  emanations  of  their  own 
genius,  and  surrounded  by  a  halo  of  literary  glory. 

To  find,  therefore,  the  elegant  historian  of  the  Medici 
mingling  among  the  busy  sons  of  traffic,  at  first  shocked  my 
poetical  ideas  j  but  it  is  from  the  very  circumstances  and 
situation  in  which  he  has  been  placed,  that  Mr.  Roscoe  de- 
rives his  highest  claims  to  admiration.  It  is  interesting  to 
notice  how  some  minds  seem  almost  to  create  themselves  \ 
springing  up  under  every  disadvantage,  and  working  their 
solitary  but  irresistible  way  through  a  thousand  obstacles. 
Nature  seems  to  delight  in  disappointing  the  assiduities  oJ 
art,  with  which  it  would  rear  legitimate  dulness  to  maturity ; 
and  to  glory  in  the  vigor  and  luxuriance  of  her  chance  pro, 
ductions.  She  scatters  the  seeds  of  genius  to  the  winds,  and 
though  some  may  perish  among  the  stony  places  of  the  world, 
and  some  be  choked  by  the  thorns  and  brambles  of  earlji 
adversity,  yet  others  will  now  and  then  strike  root  even  ii) 
the  clefts  of  the  rock,  struggle  bravely  up  into  sunshine,  an(f 
spread  over  their  sterile  birth-place  all  the  beauties  of  vegQ 
tation. 

Such  has  been  the  case  with  Mr.  Roscoe.  Born  in  ]x 
place  apparently  ungenial  to  the  growth  of  literary  talei/t; 
in  the  very  market-place  of  trade  ;  without  fortune,  f^inily 
connections,  or  patronage  ;  self-prompted,  self-sustainecj^  and 
almost  self-taught,  he  has  conquered  every  obstacle,  acl^ieved 
his  way  to  eminence,  and  having  become  one  of  the  orn -iments 
of  the  nation,  has  turned  the  whole  force  of  his  tabnts  and 
influence  to  advance  and  embellish  his  native  town. 

Indeed,  it  is  this  last  trait  in  his  character  i  iiich  has 


22  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

given  him  the  greatest  interest  in  my  eyes,  and  induced  me 
particularly  to  point  him  out  to  my  countrymen.  Eminent 
as  are  his  literary  merits,  he  is  but  one  among  the  many  dis- 
tinguished authors  of  this  intellectual  nation.  They,  however 
in  general,  live  but  for  their  own  fame,  or  their  own  pleasures* 
Their  private  history  presents  no  lesson  to  the  world,  or,  per- 
haps, a  humiliating  one  of  human  frailty  and  inconsistency 
At  best,  they  are  prone  to  steal  away  from  the  bustle  and  coml 
monplace  of  busy  existence ;  to  indulge  in  the  selfishness  of 
lettered  ease  ;  and  to  revel  in  scenes  of  mental,  but  exclusive 
enjoyment. 

Mr.  Roscoe,  on  the  contrary,  has  claimed  none  of  the 
accorded  privileges  of  talent.  He  has  shut  himself  up  in  na 
garden  of  thought,  nor  elysium  of  fancy ;  but  has  gone  forth 
into  the  highways  and  thoroughfares  of  life,  he  has  planted 
bowers  by  the  way-side,  for  the  refreshment  of  the  pilgrim 
and  the  sojourner,  and  has  opened  pure  fountains,  where  the 
laboring  man  may  turn  aside  from  the  dust  and  heat  of  the 
day,  and  drink  of  the  living  streams  of  knowledge.  There  is 
a  daily  beauty  in  his  life,''  on  which  mankind  may  meditate, 
and  grow  better.  It  exhibits  no  lofty  and  almost  useless,  be- 
cause inimitable,  example  of  excellence  ;  but  presents  a  pic- 
ture of  active,  yet  simple  and  imitable  virtues,  which  are  within 
every  man's  reach,  but  which,  unfortunately,  are  not  exercised 
by  many,  or  this  world  would  be  a  paradise. 

But  his  private  life  is  peculiarly  worthy  the  attention  of 
the  citizens  of  our  young  and  busy  country,  where  literature 
and  the  elegant  arts  must  grow  up  side  by  side  with  the 
coarser  plants  of  daily  necessity ;  and  must  depend  for  their 
culture,  not  on  the  exclusive  devotion  of  time  and  wealth ; 
nor  the  quickening  rays  of  titled  patronage ;  but  on  hours 
and  seasons  snatched  from  the  pursuit  of  worldly  interests, 
by  intelligent  and  public-spirited  individuals. 

He  has  shown  how  much  may  be  done  for  a  place  in 
hours  of  leisure  by  one  master  spirit,  and  how  completely  it 
can  give  its  own  impress  to  surrounding  objects.    Like  his 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  2\ 

own  Lorenzo  De  Medici,  on  whom  he  seems  to  have  fixed 
his  eye,  as  on  a  pure  model  of  antiquity,  he  has  interwoven 
the  history  of  his  I^fe  with  the  history  of  his  native  town,  and 
has  made  the  foundations  of  it3  fame  the  monuments  of  his 
virtues.  Wherever  you  go,  in  Liverpool,  you  perceive  traces 
of  his  footsteps  in  all  that  is  elegant  and  liberal.  He  found 
the  tide  of  wealth  flowing  merely  in  the  channels  of  traffic 
he  has  diverted  from  it  invigorating  rills  to  refresh  the 
gardens  of  literature.  By  his  own  example  and  constant 
exertions,  he  has  effected  that  union  of  commerce  and  the 
intellectual  pursuits,  so  eloquently  recommended  in  one  of 
his  latest  writings  ;  ^  and  has  practically  proved  how  beauti- 
fully they  may  be  brought  to  harmonize,  and  to  benefit  each 
other.  The  noble  institutions  for  literary  an-'  scientific  pur-^ 
poses,  which  reflect  such  credit  on  Liverpool,  and  are  giving, 
such  an  impulse  to  the  public  mind,  have  mostly  been  origin- 
ated, and  have  all  been  effectively  promoted,  by  Mr.  Roscoe  • 
and  when  we  consider  the  rapidly  increasing  opulence  and 
magnitude  of  that  town,  which  promises  to  vi3  in  commercial 
importance  with  the  metropolis,  it  will  be  perceived  that  in 
awakening  an  ambition  of  mental  improvement  among  its 
inhabitants,  he  has  effected  a  great  benefit  to.  the  cause  of 
British  literature. 

In  America,  we  know  Mr.  Roscoe  only  as  the  author — in 
Liverpool,  he  is  spoken  of  as  the  banker ;  and  I  was  told  of 
his  having  been  unfortunate  in  business.  I  could  not  pity 
him,  as  I  heard  some  rich  men  do.  I  considered  him  far 
above  the  reach  of  my  pity.  Those  who  live  only  for  the 
world,  and  in  the  world,  may  be  cast  down  by  the  frowns  of 
adversity ;  but  a  man  like  Roscoe  is  not  to  be  overcome  by 
the  reverses  of  fortune.  They  do  but  drive  him  in  upon  the 
resources  of  his  own  mind  ;  to  the  superior  society  of  his  own 
thoughts  ;  which  the  best  of  men  are  apt  sometimes  to  neg- 
lect, and  to  roam  abroad  in  search  of  less  worthy  associates. 
He  is  independent  of  the  world  around  him.  He  lives  with 
*  Address  on  the  opening  of  the  Liverpool  Institution. 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 


antiquity,  and  with  posterity  :  with  antiquity,  in  the  sweet 
communion  of  studious  retirement ;  and  with  posterity,  in  the 
generous  aspirings  after  future  renown.  The  sohtude  of  such 
a  mind  is  its  state  of  highest  enjoyment.  It  is  then  visited 
by  those  elevated  meditations  which  are  the  proper  ahment  of 
noble  souls,  and  are,  like  manna,  sent  from  heaven,  in  the 
wilderness  of  this  world. 

While  my  feelings  were  yet  alive  on  the  subject,  it  was  my 
fortune  to  light  on  farther^  traces  of  Mr.  Roscoe.  I  was  rid- 
ing out  with  a  gentleman,  to  view  the  environs  of  Liverpool, 
when  he  turned  off,  through  a  gate,  into  some  ornamented 
grounds.  After  riding  a  short  distance,  we  came  to  a  spacious 
mansion  of  freestone,  built  in  the  Grecian  style.  It  was  not 
in  the  purest  taste,  yet  it  had  an  air  of  elegance,  and  the 
situation  was  delightful.  A  fine  lawn  sloped  away  from  it, 
studded  with  clumps  of  trees,  so  disposed  as  to  break  a  soft 
fertile  country  into  a  variety  of  landscapes.  The  Mersey  was 
seen  winding  a  broad  quiet  sheet  of  water  through  an  expanse 
of  green  meadow  land  :  while  the  Welsh  mountains,  blending 
with  clouds,  and  melting  into  distance,  bordered  the  horizon. 

This  was  Roscoe's  favorite  residence  during  the  days  of 
his  prosperity.  It  had  been  the  seat  of  elegant  hospitality 
and  literary  refinement.  The  house  was  now  silent  and  de- 
serted. I  saw  the  windows  of  the  study,  which  looked  out 
tipon  the  soft  scenery  I  have  mentioned.  The  v/indows  were 
closed  —  the  library  was  gone.  Two  or  three  ill-favored 
beings  were  loitering  about  the  place,  whom  my  fancy  pic- 
tured into  retainers  of  the  law.  It  was  like  visiting  some 
classic  fountain  that  had  once  welled  its  pure  waters  in  a 
sacred  shade,  but  finding  it  dry  and  dusty,  with  the  lizard  and 
the  toad  brooding  over  the  shattered  marbles. 

I  inquired  after  the  fate  of  Mr.  Roscoe's  library,  which 
had  consisted  of  scarce  and  foreign  books,  from  many  of 
which  he  had  drawn  the  materials  for  his  Italian  histories. 
It  had  passed  under  the  hammer  of  the  auctioneer,  and  was 
dispersed  about  the  country. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  25 

The  good  people  of  the  vicinity  thronged  like  wreckers  ta 
get  some  part  of  the  nobie  vessel  that  had  been  driven 
shore.  Did  such  a  scene  admit  of  ludicrous  associations,  we 
might  imagine  something  whimsical  in  this  strange  irruption 
into  the  regions  of  learning.  Pigmies  rummaging  the  armory 
of  a  giant,  and  contending  for  the  possession  of  weapons 
which  they  could  not  wield.  We  might  picture  to  ourselves 
some  knot  of  speculators,  debating  with  calculating  brow  over 
the  quaint  binding  and  illuminated  margin  of  an  obsolete 
author ;  or  the  air  of  intense,  but  bafifled  sagacity,  with  which 
some  successful  purchaser  attempted  to  dive  into  the  black- 
letter  bargain  he  had  secured. 

It  is  a  beautiful  incident  in  the  story  of  Mr.  Roscoe's 
misfortunes,  and  one  which  cannot  fail  to  interest  the  studious 
mind,  that  the  parting  with  his  books  seems  to  have  touched 
upon  his  tenderest  feelings,  and  to  have  been  the  only  circum- 
stance that  could  provoke  the  notice  of  his  muse.  The 
scholar  only  knows  how  dear  these  silent,  yet  eloquent,  com- 
panions of  pure  thoughts  and  innocent  hours  become  in  the 
season  of  adversity.  When  all  that  is  worldly  turns  to  dross 
around  us,  these  only  retain  their  steady  value.  When  friends 
grow  cold,  and  the  converse  of  intimates  languishes  into  vapid 
civility  and  commonplace,  these  only  continue  the  unaltered 
countenance  of  happier  days,  and  cheer  us  with  that  true 
friendship  which  never  deceived  hope,  nor  deserted  sorrow. 

I  do  not  wish  to  censure  ;  but,  surely,  if  the  people  of 
Liverpool  had  been  properly  sensible  of  what  was  due  to  Mr*, 
Roscoe  and  to  themselves,  his  library  would  never  have  been 
sold.  Good  worldly  reasons  may,  doubtless,  be  given  for  the 
circumstance,  which  it  would  be  difficult  to  combat  with  others 
that  might  seem  merely  fanciful ;  but  it  certainly  appears  to 
me  such  an  opportunity  as  seldom  occurs,  of  cheering  a  noble 
mind  struggling  under  misfortunes  by  one  of  the  most  delicate, 
but  most  expressive  tokens  of  public  sympathy.  It  is  diffi- 
cult, however,  to  estimate  a  man  of  genius  properly  who  is 
daily  before  our  eyes.    He  becomes  mingled  and  confounded 


i6  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

With  other  men.  His  great  qualities  lose  their  novelty,  and 
we  become  too  familiar  with  the  common  materials  which 
form  the  basis  even  of  the  loftiest  character*  Some  of  Mr. 
Roscoe's  townsmen  may  regard  him  merely  as  a  man  of  busi- 
ness ;  others  as  a  politician ;  all  find  him  engaged  like  them- 
selves in  ordinary  occupations,  and  surpassed,  perhaps,  by 
themselves  on  some  points  of  worldly  wisdom.  Even  that 
amiable  and  unostentatious  simplicity  of  character,  which 
gives  the  name  less  grace  to  real  excellence,  may  cause  him 
to  be  undervalued  by  some  coarse  minds,  who  do  not  know 
that  true  worth  is  always  void  of  glare  and  pretension.  But 
the  man  of  letters  who  speaks  of  Liverpool,  speaks  of  it  as  the 
residence  of  Roscoe.*-The  intelligent  traveller  who  visits  it, 
inquires  where  Roscoe  is  to  be  seen. — He  is  the  literary  land- 
mark of  the  place,  indicating  its  existence  to  the  distant 
scholar. — He  is  like  Pompey's  column  at  Alexandria,  towering 
alone  in  classic  dignity. 

The  following  sonnet,  addressed  by  Mr.  Roscoe  to  his 
books,  on  parting  with  them,  is  alluded  to  in  the  preceding 
article.  If  anything  can  add  effect  to  the  pure  feeling  and 
elevated  thought  here  displayed,  it  is  the  conviction,  that  the 
whole  is  no  effusion  of  fancy,  but  a  faithful  transcript  from 
the  writer's  heart : 

TO  MY  BOOKS. 

As  one,  who,  destined  from  his  friends  to  part, 
Regrets  his  loss,  but  hopes  again  erewhile 
To  share  their  converse,  and  enjoy  their  smile, 

And  tempers,  as  he  may,  affection's  dart; 

Thus,  loved  associates,  chiefs  of  elder  art, 

Teachers  of  wisdom,  who  could  once  beguile 
My  tedious  hours,  and  lighten  every  toil, 

I  now  resign  you ;  nor  with  fainting  heart ; 

For  pass  a  few  short  years,  or  days,  or  hours. 
And  happier  seasons  may  their  dawn  unfold. 
And  all  your  sacred  fellowship  restore  ; 
When  freed  from  earth,  unlimited  its  powers, 

Mind  shall  with  mind  direct  communion  hold. 
And  kindred  spirits  meet  to  part  no  more. 


SKE2^Ca-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT. 


THE  WIFE. 

The  treasures  of  the  deep  are  not  so  precious 

As  are  the  concealed  comforts  of  a  man 
Locked  up  in  woman's  love.    I  scent  the  air 
Of  blessings,  when  I  come  but  near  the  house, 
What  a  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth— 
The  violet  bed's  not  sweeter ! 

MiDDLETON. 

I  HAVE  often  had  occasion  to  remark  the  fortitude  with 
which  women  sustain  the  most  overwhelming  reverses  of  for- 
tune. Those  disasters  which  break  down  the  spirit  of  a  man^ 
and  prostrate  him  in  the  dust,  seem  to  call  forth  all  the  ener- 
gies of  the  softer  sex,  and  give  such  intrepidity  and  elevation 
to  their  character,  that  at  times  it  approaches  to  sublimity. 
Nothing  can  be  more  touching,  than  to  behold  a  soft  and  te.i* 
der  female,  who  had  been  all  weakness  and  dependence,  and 
alive  to  every  trivial  roughness,  while  threading  the  prosper- 
ous paths  of  life,  suddenly  rising  in  mental  force  to  be  the 
comforter  and  supporter  of  her  husband  under  misfortune,  and 
abiding,  with  unshrinking  firmness,  the  bitterest  blasts  of  ad- 
versity. 

As  the  vine,  which  has  long  twined  its  graceful  foliage 
about  the  oak,  and  been  lifted  by  it  into  sunshine,  will,  when 
the  hardy  plant  is  rifted  by  the  thunderbolt,  cling  round  it 
with  its  caressing  tendrils,  and  bind  up  its  shattered  boughs 
so  is  it  beautifully  ordered  by  Providence,  that  woman,  who  is 
the  mere  dependant  and  ornament  of  man  in  his  happier 
hours,  should  be  his  stay  and  solace  when  smitten  with  sud- 
den calamity ;  winding  herself  into  the  rugged  recesses  of  his 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON-  IRVlJSra^ 


nature,  tenderly  supporting  the  drooping  head,  and  binding 
up  the  broken  heart. 

I  was  once  congratulating  a  friend,  who  had  around  him  a 
blooming  family,  knit  together  in  the  strongest  affection.  "  I 
can  wish  you  no  better  lot,''  said  he,  with  enthusiasm,  "  than 
to  have  a  wife  and  children.  If  you  are  prosperous,  there 
they  are  to  share  your  prosperity ;  if  otherwise,  there  they  are  to 
comfort  you."  And,  indeed,  I  have  observed  that  a  married 
man  falling  into  misfortune,  is  more  apt  to  retrieve  his  situa- 
tion in  the  world  than  a  single  one  ;  partly,  because  he  is  more 
stimulated  to  exertion  by  the  necessities  of  the  helpless  and 
beloved  beings  who  depend  upon  him  for  subsistence  ;  but 
chiefly,  because  his  spirits  are  soothed  and  relieved  by  do- 
mestic endearments,  and  his  self-respect  kept  alive  by  finding, 
that  though  all  abroad  is  darkness  and  humiliation,  yet  there 
is  still  a  little  world  of  love  at  home,  of  which  he  is  the  mon- 
arch. Whereas,  a  single  man  is  apt  to  run  to  waste  and  self- 
neglect  ;  to  fancy  himself  lonely  and  abandoned,  and  his 
heart  to  fall  to  ruin,  like  some  deserted  mansion,  for  want  of 
an  inhabitant. 

These  observations  call  to  mind  a  little  domestic  story,  of 
which  I  was  once  a  witness.  My  intimate  friend,  Leslie,  had 
married  a  beautiful  and  accomplished  girl,  who  had  been 
brought  up  in  the  midst  of  fashionable  life.  She  had,  it  is 
true,  no  fortune,  but  that  of  my  friend  was  ample  ;  and  he  de- 
lighted in  the  anticipation  of  indulging  her  in  every  elegant 
i  pursuit,  and  administering  to  those  delicate  tastes  and  fancies 
that  spread  a  kind  of  witchery  about  the  sex. — "  Her  life," 
said  he,  "  shall  be  like  a  fairy  tale." 

The  very  difference  in  their  characters  produced  a  har- 
monious combination  ;  he  was  of  a  romantic,  and  somewhat 
serious  cast ;  she  was  all  life  and  gladness.  I  have  often 
noticed  the  mute  rapture  with  which  he  would  gaze  upon  her 
in  company,  of  which  her  sprightly  powers  made  her  the  de- 
light ;  and  how,  in  the  midst  of  applause,  her  eyes  would  still 
turn  to  him,  as  if  there  alone  she  sought  favor  and  acceptance. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  29 

When  leaning  on  his  arm,  her  slender  form  contrasted  finely 
with  his  tall,  manly  person.  The  fond  confiding  air  with 
which  she  looked  up  to  him  seemed  to  call  forth  a  flush  of 
triumphant  pride  and  cherishing  tenderness,  as  if  he  doated 
on  his  lovely  burden  for  its  very  helplessness.  Never  did  a 
couple  set  forward  on  the  flowery  path  of  early  and  well-suited 
marriage  with  a  fairer  prospect  of  felicity. 

It  was  the  misfortune  of  my  friend,  however,  to  have  em- 
barked his  property  in  large  speculations  ;  and  he  had  not 
been  married  many  months,  when,  by  a  succession  of  sudden 
disasters  it  was  swept  from  him,  and  he  found  himself  reduced 
to  almost  penury.  For  a  time  he  kept  his  situation  to  him- 
self, and  went  about  with  a  haggard  countenance,  and  a 
breaking  heart.  His  life  was  but  a  protracted  agony ;  and 
what  rendered  it  more  insupportable  was  the  necessity  of 
keeping  up  a  smile  in  the  presence  of  his  wife ;  for  he  could 
not  bring  himself  to  overwhelm  her  with  the  news.  She  saw,, 
however,  with  the  quick  eyes  of  affection,  that  all  was  not  well 
with  him.  She  marked  his  altered  looks  and  stifled  sighs, 
and  was  not  to  be  deceived  by  his  sickly  and  vapid  attempts 
at  cheerfulness.  She  tasked  all  her  sprightly  powers  and  ten- 
der blandishments  to  win  him  back  to  happiness  ;  but  she 
only  drove  the  arrow  deeper  into  his  soul.  The  more  he  saw 
cause  to  love  her,  the  more  torturing  was  the  thought  that  he 
w^as  soon  to  make  her  wretched.  A  little  while,  thought  he,, 
and  the  smile  will  vanish  from  that  cheek — the  song  will  die 
away  from  those  lips— the  lustre  of  those  eyes  will  be  quenched 
with  sorrow — and  the  happy  heart  which  now  beats  lightly  in 
that  bosom,  will  be  weighed  down,  like  mine,  by  the  cares  and 
miseries  of  the  world. 

At  length  he  came  to  me  one  day,  and  related  his  whole 
situation  in  a  tone  of  the  deepest  despair.  When  I  had  heard 
him  through,  I  inquired,  "Does  your  wife  know  all  this?" 
At  the  question  he  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears.  "  For  God's^ 
sake  !  cried  he,  "  if  you  have  any  pity  on  me,  don't  mention 
my  wife  ;  it  is  the  thought  of  her  that  drives  me  almost  to 
madness  ! 


■go  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  said  I.  "  She  must  know  it  sooner  or 
later :  you  cannot  keep  it  long  from  her,  and  the  intelligence 
may  break  upon  her  in  a  more  startling  manner  than  if  im- 
parted by  yourself  ;  for  the  accents  of  those  we  love  soften 
the  harshest  tidings.  Besides,  you  are  depriving  yourself  of 
the  comforts  of  her  sympathy  ;  and  not  merely  that,  but  also 
endangering  the  only  bond  that  can  keep  hearts  together — an 
unreserved  community  of  thought  and  feeling.  She  will  soon 
perceive  that  something  is  secretly  preying  upon  your  mind  \ 
and  true  love  will  not  brook  reserve  :  it  feels  undervalued  and 
outraged,  v/hen  even  the  sorrows  of  those  it  loves  are  con- 
cealed from  it." 

"  Oh,  but  my  friend  !  to  think  what  a  blow  I  am  to  give 
to  all  her  future  prospects — how  I  am  to  strike  her  v^.ry  soul 
to  the  earth,  by  telling  her  that  her  husband  is  a  beggar  ! — 
that  she  is  to  forego  all  the  elegancies  of  life — all  the  pleas- 
ures of  society — shrink  with  me  into  indigence  and  ob- 
scurity !  To  tell  her  that  I  have  dragged  her  down  from  the 
sphere  in  which  she  might  have  continued  to  move  in  con- 
stant brightness — the  light  of  every  eye — the  admiration  of 
every  heart ! — How  can  she  bear  poverty  ?  She  has  been 
brought  up  in  all  the  refinements  of  opulence.  How  can  she 
bear  neglect?  She  has  been  the  idol  of  society.  Oh,  it  will 
break  her  heart— it  will  break  her  heart !  " 

I  saw  his  grief  was  eloquent,  and  I  let  it  have  its  flow  \ 
for  sorrow  relieves  itself  by  words.  When  his  paroxysm  had 
subsided,  and  he  had  relapsed  into  moody  silence,  I  resumed 
the  subject  gently,  and  urged  him  to  break  his  situation  at 
once  to  his  wife.  He  shook  his  head  mournfully,  but  posi- 
tively. 

"  But  how  are  you  to  keep  it  from  her  ?  It  is  necessary 
she  should  know  it,  that  you  may  take  the  steps  proper  to 
the  alteration  of  your  circumstances.  You  must  change  your 
style  of  living — nay,"  observing  a  pang  to  pass  across  his 
countenance,  "  don't  let  that  afflict  you.  T  am  sure  you  have 
never  placed  your  happiness  in  outward  show — you  have  yet 


KETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON.  GENT,  31 

mends,  warm  friends,  who  will  not  think  the  worse  of  you  tor 
being  less  splendidly  lodged :  and  surely  it  does  not  require 
a  palace  to  be  happy  with  Mary — I  could  be  happy  witn 
her,''  cried  he,  convulsively,  in  a  hovel  ! — I  could  go  down 
with  her  into  poverty  and  the  dust ! — I  could — I  could — Goa 
bless  ner ! — God  bless  her  ! "  cried  he,  bursting  into  a  trans- 
port of  grief  and  tenderness. 

"  And  believe  me,  my  friend,"  said  I,  stepping  up,  and 
grasping  him  warmly  by  the  hand,  believe  me,  she  can  be 
the  same  with  you.  Ay,  more  :  it  will  be  a  source  of  pride 
and  triumph  to  her— -it  will  call  forth  all  the  latent  energies 
and  fervent  sympathies  of  her  nature  ;  for  she  will  rejoice  to 
prove  that  she  loves  you  for  yourself.  There  is  in  every  true 
v/oman's  heart  a  spark  of  heavenly  fire,  which  lies  dormant 
in  the  broad  daylight  of  prosperity  ;  but  which  kindles  up, 
and  beams  and  blazes  in  the  dark  hour  of  adversity.  No 
man  knows  what  the  wife  of  his  bosom  is— no  man  knows  what 
a  ministering  angel  she  is — until  he  has  gone  with  her  through 
the  fiery  trials  of  this  world." 

There  was  something  in  the  earnestness  of  my  manner, 
and  the  figurative  style  of  my  language,  that  caught  the  ex- 
cited imagination  of  Leslie.  I  knew  the  auditor  I  had  to  deal 
with  ;  and  following  up  the  impression  T  had  made,  I  finished 
by  persuading  him  to  go  home  and  unburthen  his  sad  heart 
to  his  wife. 

I  must  confess,  notwithstanding  all  I  had  said,  I  felt  some 
little  solicitude  for  the  result.  Who  can  calculate  on  the 
fortitude  of  one  whose  whole  life  has  been  a  round  of  pleas- 
ures ?  Her  gay  spirits  might  revolt  at  the  dark,  downward 
path  of  low  humility,  suddenly  pointed  out  before  her,  and 
might  cling  to  the  sunny  regions  in  which  they  had  hitherto 
revelled.  Besides,  ruin  in  fashionable  life  is  accompanied  by 
so  many  galling  mortifications,  to  which,  in  other  ranks,  it  is* 
a  stranger. — In  short,  I  could  not  meet  Leslie,  the  nextmoiCk" 
ing,  without  trepidation.  He  had  made  the  disclosure. 
And  how  did  she  bear  it  ?  " 


3^1  WORKS  OF     ASHINGTON' IRVING. 

Like  an  angel !  It  seemed  rather  to  be  a  relief  to  her 
mind,  for  she  threw  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and  asked  if 
this  was  all  that  had  lately  made  me  unhappy.— But,  poor 
girl,^'  added  he,  she  cannot  realize  the  change  we  must  un- 
dergo. She  has  no  idea  of  poverty  but  in  the  abstract :  she- 
has  only  read  of  it  in  poetry,  where  it  is  allied  to  love.  She 
feels  as  yet  no  privation :  she  suffers  no  loss  of  accustomed 
conveniences  nor  elegancies.  When  we  come  practically  to 
experience  its  sordid  cares,  its  paltry  wants,  its  petty  humilia- 
tions—then will  be  the  real  trial." 

"  But,'*  said  I,  "  now  that  you  have  got  over  the  severest 
task,  that  of  breaking  it  to  her,  the  sooner'you  let  the  world 
into  the  secret  the  better.  The  disclosure  may  be  mortifying  ; 
but  then  it  is  a  single  misery,  and  soon  over ;  whereas  you 
otherwise  suffer  it,  in  anticipation,  every  hour  in  the  day.  It 
is  not  poverty,  so  much  as  pretence,  that  harasses  a  ruined 
man — the  struggle  between  a  proud  mind  and  an  empty  purse 
- — the  keeping  up  a  hollow  show  that  must  soon  come  to  an 
end.  Have  the  courage  to  appear  poor,  and  you  disarm 
poverty  of  its  sharpest  sting."  On  this  point  I  found  Leslie 
perfectly  prepared.  He  had  no  false  pride  himself,  and  as 
to  his  wife,  she  was  only  anxious  to  conform  to  their  altered 
fortunes. 

Some  days  afterwards,  he  called  upon  me  in  the  evening. 
He  had  disposed  of  his  dwelling-house,  and  taken  a  small 
cottage  in  the  country,  a  few  miles  from  town.  He  had  been 
busied  all  day  in  sending  out  furniture.  The  new  establish- 
ment required  few  articles,  and  those  of  the  simplest  kind. 
AVl  the  splendid  furniture  of  his  late  residence  had  been  sold, 
excepting  his  wife's  harp.  That,  he  said,  was  too  closely 
associated  with  the  idea  of  herself  ;  it  belonged  to  the 
little  story  of  their  loves  ;  for  some  of  the  sweetest  mo- 
ments of  their  courtship  were  those  when  he  had  leaned 
over  that  instrument,  and  listened  to  the  melting  tones  of 
her  voice,  I  could  not  but  smile  at  this  instance  of  romantic 
gallantry  in  a  doating  husband. 


SKETCH-BOOR-  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  33 

He  was  now  going  out  to  the  cottage,  wnere  his  wife  had 
been  all  day,  superintending  its  arrangement.  My  feelings 
had  become  strongly  interested  in  the  progress  of  his  family 
story,  and  as  it  was  a  fine  evening,  I  offered  to  accompany 
him. 

He  was  wearied  with  the  fatigues  of  the  day,  and  as  we 
walked  out,  fell  into  a  fit  of  gloomy  musing. 

"  Poor  Mary ! at  length  broke,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  from 
his  lips. 

"And  what  of  her,"  asked  I,  "has  anything  happened 
to  her " 

"  What,'*  said  he,  darting  an  impatient  glance,  "  is  it 
nothing  to  be  reduced  to  this  paltry  situation — to  be  caged 
in  a  miserable  cottage — to  be  obliged  to  toil  almost  in  the 
menial  concerns  of  her  wretched  habitation  ?  " 

"  Has  she  then  repined  at  the  change } 

"  Repined  !  she  has  been  nothing  but  sweetness  and  good 
humor.  Indeed,  she  seems  in  better  spirits  than  I  have  ever 
known  her  ;  she  has  been  to  me  all  love,  and  tenderness,  and 
comfort !  " 

"Admirable  girl!"  exclaimed  I.  "You  call  yourself 
poor,  my  friend  ;  you  never  were  so  rich — you  never  knew 
the  boundless  treasures  of  excellence  you  possessed  in  that 
woman.'* 

"  Oh !  but  my  friend,  if  this  first  meeting  at  the  cottage 
were  over,  I  think  I  could  then  be  comfortable.  But  this  is 
her  first  day  of  real  experience  :  she  has  been  introduced  into 
an  humble  dwelling— she  has  been  employed  all  day  in  ar- 
\  ranging  its  miserable  equipments — she  has  for  the  first  time 
known  the  fatigues  of  domestic  employment — she  has  for  the 
first  time  looked  around  her  on  a  home  destitute  of  every- 
thing elegant — almost  of  everything  convenient ;  and  may 
now  be  sitting  down,  exhausted  and  spiritless,  brooding  over 
a  prospect  of  future  poverty." 

There  was  a  degree  of  probability  in  this  picture  that  5 
could  not  gainsay,  so  we  walked  on  in  silence. 


^4  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

After  turning  from  the  main  road,  up  a  narrow  lane,  sa 
thickly  shaded  by  forest  trees  as  to  give  it  a  complete  air  of 
seclusion,  we  came  in  sight  of  the  cottage.  It  was  humble 
enough  in  its  appearance  for  the  most  pastoral  poet ;  and  yet 
it  had  a  pleasing  rural  look.  A  wild  vine  had  overrun  one  end 
with  a  profusion  of  foliage;  a  few  trees  threw  their  branches 
gracefully  over  it ;  and  I  observed  several  pots  of  flowers 
tastefully  disposed  about  the  door,  and  on  the  grass-plot  in 
front.  A  small  wicket-gate  opened  upon  a  footpath  that 
wound  through  some  shrubbery  to  the  door.  Just  as  we  ap- 
proached, we  heard  the  sound  of  music-^Leslie  grasped  my 
arm  ;  w^e  paused  and  listened.  It  was  Mary's  voice,  singingv 
in  a  style  of  the  most  touching  simplicity,  a  little  air  of  which 
her  husband  was  peculiarly  fond. 

I  felt  Leslie's  hand  tremble  on  my  arm.  He  stepped  for- 
ward, to  hear  more  distinctly.  His  step  made  a  noise  on 
the  gravel-walk.  A  bright  beautiful  face  glanced  out  at  the 
window,  and  vanished  —  a  light  footstep  was  heard^ —  and 
Mary  came  tripping  forth  to  meet  us.  She  was  in  a  pretty 
rural  dress  of  white  ;  a  few  wild  flowers  were  twisted  in  her 
fine  hair ;  a  fresh  bloom  was  on  her  cheek  ;  her  whole  coun- 
tenance beamed  with  smiles — I  had  never  seen  her  look  sa 
lovely. 

My  dear  George,"  cried  she,  "  I  am  so  glad  you  are 
come  ;  I  have  been  watching  and  watching  for  you  \  and  run- 
ning down  the  lane,  and  looking  out  for  you.  I've  set  out  a 
table  under  a  beautiful  tree  behind  the  cottage ;  and  I've 
Deen  gathering  some  of  the  most  delicious  strawberries,  for  I 
know  you  are  fond  of  them — and  we  have  such  excellent 
cream — and  everything  is  so  sweet  and  still  here. — Oh  !  " — 
said  she,  putting  her  arm  within  his,  and  looking  up  brightly 
in  his  face,  "  Oh,  we  shall  be  so  happy  1 

Poor  Leslie  was  overcome.— He  caught  her  to  his  bosom 
— he  folded  his  arms  round  her — he  kissed  her  again  and 
again — he  could  not  speak,  but  the  tears  gushed  into  his  eyes  : 
and  he  has  often  assured  me,  that  though  the  world  has  sincf* 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GEN7.       3 - 

,-gone  prosperously  with  him,  and  his  life  has  indeed  been  a 
happy  one,  yet  never  has  he  experienced  a  moment  of  more 
exquisite  felicity. 


[The  following  Tale  was  found  among  the  papers  of  the 
late  Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  an  old  gentleman  of  New- York, 
who  was  very  curious  in  the  Dutch  History  of  the  province 
and  the  manners  of  the  descendants  from  its  primitive  settlers. 
His  historical  researches,  however,  did  not  lie  so  much  among 
books  as  among  men  ;  for  the  former  are  lamentably  scanty 
on  his  favorite  topics;  whereas  he  found  the  old  burghers, 
and  still  more,  their  wives,  rich  in  that  legendary  lore,  so 
invaluable  to  true  history.  Whenever,  therefore,  he  happened 
upon  a  genuine  Dutch  family,  snugly  shut  up  in  its  low-roofed 
farm-house,  under  a  spreading  sycamore,  he  looked  upon  it 
as  a  little  clasped  volume  of  black-letter,  and  studied  it  with 
the  zeal  of  a  bookworm. 

The  result  of  all  these  researches  was  a  history  of  the 
province,  during  the  reign  of  the  Dutch  governors,  which  he 
published  some  years  since.  There  have  been  various 
opinions  as  to  the  literary  character  of  his  work,  and,  to  tell 
the  truth,  it  is  not  a  whit  better  than  it  should  be.  Its  chief 
merit  is  its  scrupulous  accuracy,  which,  indeed,  was  a  little 
questioned,  on  its  first  appearance,  but  has  since  been  com- 
pletely established  ;  and  it  is  now  admitted  into  all  historical 
collections,  as  a  book  of  unquestionable  authority. 

The  old  gentleman  died  shortly  after  the  publication  of 
his  work,  and  now,  that  he  is  dead  and  gone,  it  cannot  do 
much  harm  to  his  memory,  to  say,  that  his  time  might  have 
been  much  better  employed  in  weightier  labors.  He,  how- 
ever, was  apt  to  ride  his  hobby  his  own  way  ;  and  though  it 
did  now  and  then  kick  up  the  dust  a  little  in  the  eyes  of  his 
neighbors,  and  grieve  the  spirit  of  some  friends  for  whom  he 
felt  the  truest  deference  and  affection,  yet  his  errors  and  fol- 


^6  WORKS  OF  V^'ASIIhYGTON  IRVING, 

lies  are  remembered  "  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,"  ^  and 
it  begins  to  be  suspected,  that  he  never  intended  in  injure  or 
offetid.  But  however  his  memory  may  be  appreciated  by 
critics,  it  is  still  held  dear  among  many  folk,  whose  good 
opinion  is  well  worth  having  ;  particularly  by  certain  biscuit- 
bakers,  who  have  gone  so  far  as  to  imprint  his  likeness  on 
their  new-year  cakes,  and  have  thus  given  him  a  chance  for 
immortality,  almost  equal  to  the  being  stamped  on  a  Waterloo 
medal,  or  a  Queen  Anne's  farthing.] 

*  Vide  the  excellent  discourse  of  G.  C  Verplack,  Esq.,  before  thc- 
New  York  Historical  Society. 


/ 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT. 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE. 

Si  POSTHUMOUS  WRITING  OF  DIEDRICH  KNICKERBOCKER. 

By  Woden,  God  of  Saxons, 

From  whence  comes  Wensday,  that  is  Wodensday 

Truth  is  a  thing  that  ever  I  will  keep 

Unto  thylke  day  in  which  I  creep  into 

My  sepulchre — 

Cartwright. 

Whoever  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson,  must  re* 
member  the  Kaatskill  mountains.  They  are  a  dismembered 
branch  of  the  great  Appalachian  family,  and  are  seen  away  to 
the  west  of  the  river,  swelling  up  to  a  noble  height,  and  lording 
it  over  the  surrounding  country.  Every  change  of  season, 
every  change  of  weather,  indeed  every  hour  of  the  day  pro- 
duces some  change  in  the  magical  hues  and  shapes  of  these 
mountains  ;  and  they  are  regarded  by  all  the  good  wives,  far 
and  near,  as  perfect  barometers-  When  the  weather  is  fair 
and  settled,  they  are  clothed  in  blue  and  purple,  and  print 
their  bold  outlines  on  the  clear  evening  sky  ;  but  sometimes, 
when  the  rest  of  the  landscape  is  cloudless,  they  will  gather 
,.a  hood  of  gray  vapors  about  their  summits,  which,  in  the  last 
rays  of  the  setting  sun,  will  glow  and  light  up  like  a  crown  of 
glory. 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains,  the  voyager  may  have 
descried  the  light  smoke  curling  up  from  a  village,  whose 
shingle  roofs  gleam  among  the  trees,  just  where  the  blue  tints 
of  the  upland  melt  away  into  the  fresh  green  of  the  nearer 
landscape.  It  is  a  little  village  of  great  antiquity,  having 
been  founded  by  some  of  the  Dutch  colonists,  in  the  early 
times  of  the  province,  just  about  the  beginning  of  the  govern- 


38  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

ment  of  the  good  Peter  Stuyvesant  (may  he  rest  in  peace !) 
and  there  were  some  of  the  houses  of  the  original  settlers 
standing  within  a  few  years,  built  of  small  yellow  bricks, 
brought  from  Holland,  having  latticed  windows  and  gable 
fronts,  surmounted  with  weathercocks. 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very  houses 
(which,  to  tell  the  precise  truth,  was  sadly  time-worn  and 
weather-beaten),  there  lived  many  years  since,  while  the 
country  was  yet  a  province  of  Great  Britain,  a  simple,  good- 
natured  fellow,  of  the  name  of  Rip  Van  Winkle.  He  was  a 
descendant  of  the  Van  Winkles  who  figured  so  gallantly  in 
the  chivalrous  days  of  Peter  Stuyvesant,  and  accompanied 
him  to  the  siege  of  fort  Christina.  He  inherited,  however, 
but  little  of  the  martial  character  of  his  ancestors.  I  have 
observed  that  he  was  a  simple  good-natured  man  ;  he  was 
moreover  a  kind  neighbor,  and  an  obedient  henpecked  hus- 
band. Indeed,  to  the  latter  circumstance  might  be  owing 
that  meekness  of  spirit  which  gained  him  such  universal  pop* 
ularity  ;  for  those  men  are  most  apt  to  be  obsequious  and 
conciliating  abroad,  who  are  under  the  discipline  of  shrews 
at  home.  Their  tempers,  doubtless,  are  rendered  pliant  and 
malleable  in  the  fiery  furnace  of  domestic  tribulation,  and  a 
curtain  lecture  is  worth  all  the  sermons  in  the  world  for 
teaching  the  virtues  of  patience  and  long-suffering.  A  ter- 
magant wife  may,  therefore,  in  some  respects,  be  considered 
a  tolerable  blessing  ;  and  if  so,  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  thrice 
blessed. 

Certain  it  is,  that  he  was  a  great  favorite  among  all  the 
good  wives  of  the  village,  who,  as  usual  with  the  amiable  sex, 
took  his  part  in  all  family  squabbles,  and  never  failed,  when- 
ever they  talked  those  matters  over  in  their  evening  gossip- 
ings,  to  lay  all  the  blame  on  Dame  Van  Winkle.  The  children 
of  the  village,  too,  would  shout  with  joy  whenever  he  ap- 
proached. He  assisted  at  their  sports,  made  their  playthings, 
taught  them  to  fly  kites  and  shoot  marbles,  and  told  them 
long  stories  of  ghosts,  witches,  and  Indians.    Whenever  he 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  3^ 

wevit  dodging  about  the  village,  he  was  surrounded  by  a  troop 
of  them  hanging  on  his  skirts,  clambering  on  his  back,  and 
playing  a  thousand  tricks  on  him  with  impunity  ;  and  not  a 
dog  would  bark  at  him  throughout  the  neighborhood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's  composition  was  an  insuperable 
aversion  to  all  kinds  of  profitable  labor.  It  could  not  be 
from  the  want  of  assiduity  or  perseverance  ;  for  he  would  sit 
on  a  wet  rock,  with  a  rod  as  long  and  heavy  as  a  Tartar's 
lance,  and  fish  all  day  without  a  murmur,  even  though  he 
should  not  be  encouraged  by  a  single  nibble.  He  would  carry 
a  fowling-piece  on  his  shoulder,  for  hours  together,  trudging 
through  woods  and  swamps,  and  up  hill  and  down  dale,  to 
shoot  a  few  squirrels  or  wild  pigeons.  He  would  never  refuse 
to  assist  a  neighbor  even  in  the  roughest  toil,  and  was  a 
foremost  man  at  all  country  frolics  for  husking  Indian  corn^ 
or  building  stone  fences.  The  women  of  the  village,  too,  used 
to  employ  him  to  run  their  errands,  and  to  do  such  little  odd 
jobs  as  their  less  obliging  husbands  would  not  do  for  them 
in  a  word.  Rip  was  ready  to  attend  to  anybody's  business  but 
his  own  ;  but  as  to  doing  family  duty,  and  keeping  his  farm  \n 
order,  he  found  it  impossible. 

In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  no  use  to  work  on  his  farm  ; 
it  was  the  most  pestilent  little  piece  of  ground  in  the  whole 
country  ;  everything  about  it  went  wrong,  and  would  go  wrong 
in  spite  of  him.  His  fences  were  continually  falling  to  pieces  ; 
his  cow  would  either  go  astray,  or  get  among  the  cabbages  ; 
weeds  were  sure  to  grow  quicker  in  his  fields  that  anywhere 
else  ;  the  rain  always  made  a  point  of  setting  in  just  as  he  had 
some  out-door  work  to  do  :  so  that  though  his  patrimonial  es- 
tate had  dwindled  away  under  his  management,  acre  by  acre, 
until  there  was  little  more  left  than  a  mere  patch  of  Indian 
corn  and  potatoes,  yet  it  was  the  worst  conditioned  farm  in 
the  neighborhood. 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  as  if  they  be- 
longed to  nobody.  His  son  Rip,  an  urchin  begotten  in  his  own 
likeness,  promised  to  inherit  the  habits,  with  the  old  dothes 


WORKS^^  OF  WASHING  TON  IR  VING. 

of  his  father.  He  was  generally  seen  trooping  like  a  colt  at 
his  mother's  heels,  equipped  in  a  pair  of  his  father's  cast-off 
-galligaskins,  which  he  had  much  ado  to  hold  up  with  one 
hand,  as  a  fine  lady  does  her  train  in  bad  weather. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those  happy  mortals, 
of  foolish,  well-oiled  dispositions,  who  take  the  world  easy,  eat 
white  bread  or  brown,  whichever  can  be  got  with  least  thought 
or  trouble,  and  would  rather  starve  on  a  penny  than  work  for 
a  pound.  If  left  to  himself,  he  would  have  whistled  life  away, 
in  perfect  contentment ;  but  his  wife  kept  continually  dinning 
in  his  ears  about  his  idleness,  his  carelessness,  and  the  ruin 
he  was  bringing  on  his  family. 

Morning,  noon,  and  night,  her  tongue  was  incessantly  go- 
ing, and  everything  he  said  or  did  was  sure  to  produce  a  tor- 
rent of  household  eloquence.  Rip  had  but  one  way  of  reply- 
ing to  all  lectures  of  the  kind,  and  that,  by  frequent  use,  had 
^rown  into  a  habit.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  shook  his 
head,  cast  up  his  eyes,  but  said  nothing.  This,  however,  al- 
ways provoked  a  fresh  volley  from  his  wife,  so  that  he  was 
fain  to  draw  off  his  forces,  and  take  to  the  outside  of  the 
house — the  only  side  which,  in  truth,  belongs  to  a  henpecked 
husband. 

Rip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog  Wolf,  who  was 
as  much  henpecked  as  his  master ;  for  Dame  Van  Winkle  re- 
garded them  as  companions  in  idleness,  and  even  looked  upon 
Wolf  with  an  evil  eye,  as  the  cause  of  his  master's  going  so 
often  astray.  True  it  is,  in  all  points  of  spirit  befitting  an 
honorable  dog,  he  was  as  courageous  an  animal  as  ever 
scoured  the  woods — but  what  courage  can  withstand  the  ever- 
<iuring  and  all-besetting  terrors  of  a  woman's  tongue  ?  The 
moment  Wolf  entered  the  house,  his  crest  fell,  his  tail  drooped 
to  the  ground,  or  curled  between  his  legs,  he  sneaked  about 
with  a  gallows  air,  casting  many  a  sidelong  glance  at  Dame 
Van  Winkle,  and  at  the  least  flourish  of  a  broomstick  or  ladle, 
he  would  fly  to  the  door  with  yelping  precipitation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Rip  Van  Winkle,  as 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  41 

years  of  matrimony  rolled  on :  a  tart  temper  never  mellows 
with  age,  and  a  sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edge  tool  that  grows 
keener  with  constant  use.  For  a  long  while  he  used  to  con- 
sole himself,  when  driven  from  home,  by  frequenting  a  kind 
.  of  perpetual  club  of  the  sages,  philosophers,  and  other  idle 
\  personages  of  the  village,  which  held  its  sessions  on  a  bench 
N  before  a  small  inn,  designated  by  a  rubicund  portrait  of  his 
majesty  George  the  Third.  Here  they  used  to  sit  in  the 
shade  of  a  long  lazy  summer's  day,  talking  listlessly  over  village 
gossip,  or  telling  endless  sleepy  stories  about  nothing.  But 
it  would  have  been  worth  any  statesman's  money  to  have  heard 
the  profound  discussions  which  sometimes  took  place,  w^hen 
by  chance  an  old  newspaper  fell  into  their  hands,  from  some 
passing  traveller.  How  solemnly  they  would  listen  to  the 
contents,  as  drawled  out  by  Derrick  Van  Bummel,  the  school- 
master, a  dapper  learned  little  man,  who  was  not  to  be 
daunted  by  the  most  gigantic  word  in  the  dictionaiy  j  and  how 
sagely  they  would  deliberate  upon  public  events  some  m.onths- 
after  they  had  taken  place. 

The  opinions  of  this  junto  were  completely  controlled  by 
Nicholas  Vedder,  a  patriarch  of  the  village,  and  landlord  of 
the  inn,  at  the  door  of  which  he  took  his  seat  from  morning 
till  night,  just  moving  sufficiently  to  avoid  the  sun,  and  keep- 
in  the  shade  of  a  large  tree  :  so  that  the  neighbors  could  tell 
the  hour  by  his  movements  as  accurately  as  by  a  sun-dial.  It 
is  true,  he  was  rarely  heard  to  speak,  but  smoked  his  pipe  in- 
cessantly. His  adherents,  however,  (for  every  great  man  has 
his  adherents.)  perfectly  understood  him,  and  knew  how  to 
gather  his  opinions.  When  anything  that  was  read  or  related 
displeased  him,  he  was  observed  to  smoke  his  pipe  vehemently, 
and  to  send  forth  short,  frequent,  and  angry  puffs  ;  but  when 
pleased,  he  would  inhale  the  smoke  slowly  and  tranquilly,  and 
emit  it  in  light  and  placid  clouds,  and  sometimes  taking  the 
pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  letting  the  fragrant  vapor  curl 
about  his  nose.  wo"M  gravely  nod  his  head  in  token  of  perfect:, 
approbation. 


4« 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON 


From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky  Rip  was  at  length 
routed  by  his  termagant  wife,  who  would  suddenly  break  in 
upon  the  tranquillity  of  the  assemblage,  and  call  the  members 
all  to  nought ;  nor  was  that  august  personage,  Nicholas  Ved- 
der  himself,  sacred  from  the  daring  tongue  of  this  terrible  vi- 
rago,  who  charged  him  outright  with  encouraging  her  husband 
in  habits  of  idleness. ' 

Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair,  and  his 
only  alternative  to  escape  from  the  labor  of  the  farm  and  the 
clamor  of  his  wife,  was  to  take  gun  in  hand,  and  stroll  away 
.  into  the  woods.  Here  he  would  sometimes  seat  himself  at 
the  foot  of  a  tree,  and  share  the  contents  of  his  wallet  with 
Wolf,  with  whom  he  sympathized  as  a  fellow-sufferer  in  perse- 
cution. "  Poor  Wolf,"  he  would  say,  "thy  mistress  leads  thee 
a  dog's  life  of  it ;  but  never  mind,  my  lad,  whilst  I  live  thou 
Shalt  never  want  a  friend  to  stand  by  thee !  "  Wolf  w^ould 
wag  his  tail,  look  wistfully  in  his  master's  face,  and  if  dogs 
can  feel  pity,  I  verily  believe  he  reciprocated  the  sentiment, 
with  all  his  heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind,  on  a  fine  autumnal  day^  Rip 
had  unconsciously  scrambled  to  one  of  the  highest  parts  of 
the  Kaatskill  mountains.  He  was  after  his  favourite  sport  of 
squirrel-shooting,  and  the  still  solitudes  had  echoed  and  re- 
echoed with  the  reports  of  his  gun.  Panting  and  fatigued,  he 
threw  himself,  late  in  the  afternoon,  on  a  green  knoll  covered 
with  mountain  herbage,  that  crowned  the  brow  of  a  precipice. 
From  an  opening  between'^the  trees,  he  could  overlook  all  the 
lower  country  for  many  a  mile  of  rich  woodland.  He  saw  at 
a  distance  the  lordly  Hudson,  far,  far  below  him,  moving 
on  its  silent  but  majestic  course,  with  the  reflection  of  a 
purple  cloud,  or  the  sail  of  a  lagging  bark,  here  and  there 
sleeping  on  its  glassy  bosom,  and  at  last  losing  itself  in  the 
blue  highlands. 

On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a  deep  mountain 
glen,  wild,  lonely,  and  shagged,  the  bottom  filled  with  frag- 
ments from  the  impending  cliffs,  and  scarcely  lighted  by  the 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  43 

reflected  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  For  some  time  Rip  lay  mu- 
sing on  this  scene  ;  evening  was  gradually  advancing  ;  the 
mountains  began  to  throw  their  long  blue  shadows  over  the 
valleys  ;  he  saw  that  it  would  be  dark  long  before  he  could 
reach  the  village  ;  and  he  heaved  a  heavy  sigh  when  he  thought 
of  encountering  the  terrors  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 

As  he  was  about  to  descend  he  heard  a  voice  from  a  dis~ 
tance  hallooing,  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  "  He 
looked  around,  but  could  see  nothing'  but  a  crow  winging  its 
solitary  flight  across  the  mountain.  He  thought  his  fancy 
must  have  deceived  him,  and  turned  again  to  descend,  when  he 
heard  the  same  cry  ring  through  the  still  evening  air,  "  Rip 
Van  Winkle  1  Rip  Van  Wrinkle  !  " — at  the  same  time  Wolf 
bristled  up  his  back,  and  giving  a  low  growl^  skulked  to  his 
master's  ,"ride,  looking  fearfully  down  into  the  glen.  Rip  now 
felt  a  vague  apprehension  stealing  over  him  ;  he  looked  anx- 
iously in  the  same  direction,  and  perceived  a  strange  figure 
slowly  toiling  up  the  rocks,  and  bending  under  the  weight  of 
something  he  carried  on  his  back.  He  was  surprised  to  see 
any  human  being  in  this  lonely  and  unfrequented  place,  but 
supposing  it  to  be  some  one  of  the  neighborhood  in  need  of 
his  assistance,  he  hastened  down  to  yield  it. 

On  nearer  approach,  he  was  still  more  surprised  at  the  sin- 
gularity of  the  stranger's  appearance.  He  was  a  short  square- 
built  old  fellow,  with  thick  bushy  hair,  and  a  grizzled  beard. 
His  dress  was  of  the  antique  Dutch  fashion— a  cloth  jerkin 
strapped  round  the  waist— several  pair  of  breeches,  the  outer 
one  of  ample  volume,  decorated  with  rows  of  buttons  down 
the  sides,  and  bunches  at  the  knees.  He  bore  on  his  shoul- 
ders a  stout  keg,  that  seemed  full  of  liquor,  and  made  signi 
for  Rip  to  approach  and  assist  him  with  the  load.  Though 
rather  shy  and  distrustful  of  this  new  acquaintance.  Rip  com- 
plied with  his  usual  alacrity,  and  mutually  relieving  each  other, 
they  clambered  up  a  narrow  gully,  apparently  the  dry  bed  of 
a  mountain  torrent.  As  they  ascended,  Rip  every  now  and 
then  heard  long  rolling  peals,  like  distant  thunder,  that  seemed 


44 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


to  issue  out  of  a  deep  ravine,  or  rather  cleft  between  lofty 
cocks,  toward  which  their  rugged  path  conducted.  He  paused 
ior  an  instant,  but  supposing  it  to  be  the  muttering  of  one  of 
those  transient  thunder-showers  which  often  take  place  in  the 
mountain  heights,  he  proceeded.  Passing  through  the  ravine, 
tliey  came  to  a  hollow,  like  a  small  amphitheatre,  surrounded 
by  perpendicular  precipices,  over  the  brinks  of  which,  im 
pending  trees  shot  their  branches,  so  that  you  only  caught 
glimpses  of  the  azure  sky,  and  the  bright  evening  cloud. 
During  the  whole  time.  Rip  and  his  companion  had  labored 
on  in  silence  ;  for  though  the  former  marvelled  greatly  what 
could  be  the  object  of  carrying  a  keg  of  liquor  up  this  wild 
mountain,  yet  there  was  something  strange  and  incomprehen- 
sible about  the  unknown,  that  inspired  awe,  and  checked 
familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheatre,  new  objects  of  wonder  pre- 
sented themselves.  On  a  level  spot  in  the  centre  was  a  com- 
pany of  odd-looking  personages  playing  at  nine-pins.  They 
were  dressed  in  a  quaint  outlandish  fashion  :  some  wore  short 
doublets,  others  jerkins,  with  long  knives  in  their  belts,  and 
most  of  them  had  enormous  breeches,  of  similar  style  with 
that  of  the  guide's.  Their  visages  too,  were  peculiar  :  one  had 
a  large  head,  broad  face,  and  small  piggish  eyes  ;  the  face  of 
another  seemed  to  consist  entirely  of  nose,  and  was  surmounted 
by  a  white  sugar-loaf  hat,  set  off  with  a  little  red  cock's  tail. 
They  all  had  beards,  of  various  shapes  and  colors.  There 
was  one  who  seemed  to  be  the  commander.  He  was  a  stout 
old  gentleman,  with  a  weather-beaten  countenance  ;  he  wore 
a  laced  doublet,  broad  belt  and  hanger,  h!gh-crowned  hat  and 
feather,  red  stockings,  and  high-heeled  shoes,  with  roses  i\ 
them.  The  whole  group  reminded  Rip  of  the  figures  in  at. 
old  Flemish  painting,  in  the  parlor  of  Dominie  Van  Schaick, 
the  village  parson,  and  which  had  been  brought  over  frouj 
Holland  at  the  time  of  the  settlement. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip  was,  that  tK<:*/>^v:h 
these  folks  were  evidently  amusing  themselves,  yet  the>  /nain- 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  45 

tained  the  gravest  faces,  the  most  mysterious  silence,  and 
•werCj  withal,  the  most  melancholy  party  of  pleasure  he  had 
ever  witnessed.  Nothing  interrupted  the  stillness  of  the  scene- 
but  the  noise  of  the  balls,  which,  whenever  they  were  rolled, 
echoed  along  the  mountains  like  rumbling  peals  of  thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them,  they  sud- 
denly desisted  from  their  play,  and  stared  at  him  with  such  a 
fixed  statue-like  gaze,  and  such  strange,  uncouth,  lack-lustre 
countenances,  that  his  heart  turned  within  him,  and  his  knees 
smote  together.  His  companion  now  emptied  the  contents  ot 
the  keg  into  large  flagons,  and  made  signs  to  him  to  wait  uporr 
the  company.  He  obeyed  with  fear  and  trembling ;  the}r 
quaffed  the  liquor  in  profound  silence,  and  then  returned  to 
their  game. 

By  degrees.  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension  subsided.  He 
even  ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him,  to  taste  the 
beverage  which  he  found  had  much  of  the  flavor  of  excellent 
Hollands.  He  was  naturally  a  thirsty  soul,  and  was  soon 
tempted  to  repeat  the  draught.  One  taste  provoked  another^ 
and  he  reiterated  his  visits  to  the  flagon  so  often,  that  at 
length  his  senses  were  overpowered,  his  eyes  swam  in  his  head,, 
his  head  gradually  declined,  and  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

On  waking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll  from 
whence  he  had  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen.  He  rubbed 
his  eyes — it  was  a  bright  sunny  morning.  The  birds  were, 
hopping  and  twittering  among  the  bushes,  and  the  eagle  was 
wheeling  aloft,  and  breasting  the  pure   mountain  breeze. 

Surely,"  thought  Rip,  I  have  not  slept  here  all  night." 
He  recalled  the  occurrences  before  he  fell  asleep.  The  strange 
man  with  the  keg  of  liquor — the  mountain  ravine — the  wild 
retreat  among  the  rocks — the  wo-begone  party  at  nine  pins — 
the  flagon — "  Oh  !  that  wicked  flagon  !  "  thought  Rip — "  what 
excuse  shall  I  make  to  Dame  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the  clean 
well-oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old  firelock  lying  by  him, 
the  barrel  encrusted  with  rust,  the  lock  falling  off,  and  th^ 


^4-6  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 

s  ock  worm-eaten.  He  now  suspected  that  the  grave  roysters 
of  the  mountain  had  put  a  trick  upon  him,  and  having  dosed 
him  with  liquor,  had  robbed  him  of  his  gun.  Wolf,  too,  had 
disappeared,  but  he  might  have  strayed  away  after  a  squirrel 
or  partridge.  He  whistled  after  him  and  shouted  his  name, 
but  all  in  vain  ;  the  echoes  repeated  his  whistle  and  shout, 
but  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last  evening's 
gambol,  and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party,  to  demand  his 
dog  and  gun.  As  he  rose  to  walk,  he  found  himself  stiff  in 
the  joints,  and  wanting  in  his  usual  activity.  *^  These  moun- 
tain beds  do  not  agree  with  me,''  thought  Rip,  "and  if  this 
frolic  should  lay  me  up  with  a  fit  of  the  rheumatism,  I  shall 
have  a  blessed  time  with  Dame  Van  Winkle.'*  With  some 
difficulty  he  got  down  into  the  glen  ;  he  found  the  gully  up 
which  he  and  his  companion  had  ascended  the  preceding 
evening  ;  but  to  his  astonishment  a  mountain  stream  was  now 
foaming  down  it,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  and  filling  the 
glen  with  babbling  murmurs.  He,  however,  made  shift  to 
scramble  up  its  sides,  working  his  toilsome  way  through 
thickets  of  birch,  sassafras,  and  witch-hazel  ;  and  sometimes 
tripped  up  or  entangled  by  the  wild  grape  vines  that  twisted 
their  coils  and  tendrils  from  tree  to  tree,  and  spread  a  kind 
of  network  in  his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had  opened 
through  the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheatre  ;  but  no  traces  of  such 
opening  remained.  The  rocks  presented  a  high  impenetrable 
wall,  over  which  the  torrent  came  tumbling  in  a  sheet  of 
feathery  foam,  and  fell  into  a  broad  deep  basin,  black  from 
the  shadows  of  the  surrounding  forest.  Here,  then,  poor 
Rip  was  brought  to  a  stand.  He  again  called  and  whistled 
after  his  dog ;  he  was  only  answered  by  the  cawing  of  a  flock 
of  idle  crows,  sporting  high  in  the  air  about  a  dry  tree  that 
overhung  a  sunny  precipice ;  and  who,  secure  in  their  eleva- 
tion, seemed  to  look  down  and  scoff  at  the  poor  man's  per- 
plexities.   What  was  to  be  done  ?  ,^he  morning  was  passing 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  VON,  GENT.  47 

away,  and  Rip  felt  famished  for  want  of  his  breakfast.  He 
grieved  to  give  up  his  dog  and  gun  ;  he  dreaded  to  meet  his 
wife ;  but  it  would  not  do  to  starve  among  the  mountains. 
He  shook  his  head,  shouldered  the  rusty  firelock,  and,  with  a 
lieart  full  of  trouble  and  anxiety,  turned  his  steps  homeward. 

As  he  approached  the  village,  he  met  a  number  of  people, 
but  none  whom  he  new,  which  somewhat  surprised  him,  for 
he  had  thought  himself  acquainted  with  every  one  in  the  coun- 
try round,  l^heir  dress,  too,  was  of  a  different  fashion  from 
that  to  which  he  was  accustomed.  They  all  stared  at  him 
with  equal  marks  of  surprise,  and  whenever  they  cast  eyes 
upon  him,  invariably  stroked  their  chins.  The  constant  recur- 
rence of  this  gesture,  induced  Rip,  involuntarily,  to  do  the  same, 
when,  to  his  astonishment,  he  found  his  beard  had  grown  a 
foot  long ! 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  A  troop  of 
strange  children  ran  at  his  heels,  hooting  after  him,  and  point- 
ing at  his  gray  beard.  The  dogs,  too,  not  one  of  which  he  re- 
cognized for  an  old  acquaintance,  barked  at  him  as  he  passed. 
The  very  village  was  altered  :  it  was  larger  and  more  popu- 
lous. There  were  rows  of  houses  which  he  had  never  seen  be- 
fore, and  those  which  had  been  his  familiar  haunts  had  disap- 
peared. Strange  names  v/ere  over  the  doors — strange  faces 
at  the  windows — everything  was  strange.  His  mind  now  mis- 
gave him  ;  he  began  to  doubt  whether  both  he  and  the  world 
around  him  were  not  bewitched.  Surely  this  was  his  native 
village,  which  he  had  left  but  a  day  before.  There  stood  the 
Kaatskill  mountains — there  ran  the  silver  Hudson  at  a  dis- 
tance— there  was  every  hill  and  dale  precisely  as  it  had  al- 
ways been — Rip  was  sorely  perplexed — "That  flagon  last 
night,^*  thought  he,  "  has  addled  my  poor  head  sadly  !  " 

It  was  with  some  difBculty  that  he  found  the  way  to  his 
owri  house,  which  he  approached  with  silent  awe,  expecting 
every  moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 
He  found  the  house  gone  to  decay — the  roof  fallen  in,  the 
windows  shattered,  and  the  doors  off  the  hinges.    A  halt- 


^  WOJ^A'S  OF  IVASII I NG  TON  IRVING. 

Starved  dog,  that  looked  like  Wolf,  was  skulking  about  It. 
Rip  called  him  by  name,  but  the  cur  snarled,  showed  his  teeth> 
and  passed  on.  This  was  an  unkind  cut  indeed. — "  My  very- 
dog,^'  sighed  poor  Rip,    has  forgotten  me  1  " 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  Dame  Van 
Winkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order.  It  was  empty,  forlorn, 
and  apparently  abandoned.  This  desolateness  overcame  all 
his  connubial  fears — he  called  loudly  for  his  wife  and  children 
— the  lonely  chambers  rang  for  a  moment  with  his  voice,  and 
then  all  again  was  silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old  resort.,  the 
village  inn — but  it  too  was  gone.  A  large  rickety  wooden 
building  stood  in  its  place,  with  great  gaping  windows,  some 
of  them  broken,  and  mended  with  old  hats  and  petticoats,  and 
over  the  door  was  painted,  The  Union  Hotel,  by  Jonathan 
Doolittle."  Instead  of  the  great  tree  that  used  to  sjielter  the 
quiet  little  Dutch  inn  of  yore,  there  now  was  reared  a  tall 
naked  pole,  with  something  on  the  top  that  looked  like  a  red 
night-cap,  and  from  it  was  fluttering  a  flag,  ori  which  was  a 
singular  assemblage  of  stars  and  stripes — all  this  was  strange 
and  incomprehensible.  He  recognized  on  the  sign,  however, 
the  ruby  face  of  King  George,  under  which  he  had  smoked 
so  many  a  peaceful  pipe,  but  even  this  was  singularly  meta- 
morphosed. The  red  coat  was  changed  for  one  of  blue  and 
buff,  a  sword  was  held  in  the  hand  instead  of  a  sceptre,  the 
head  w^as  decorated  with  a  cocked  hat,  and  underneath  was 
painted  in  large  characters,  General  Washington. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the  door,  but 
pone  that  Rip  recollected.  The  very  character  of  the  people 
seemed  changed.  There  was  a  busy,  bustling,  disputatious 
tone  about  it,  instead  of  the  accustomed  phlegm  and  drowsy 
tranquillity.  He  looked  in  vain  for  the  sage  Nicholas  Vedder, 
with  his  broad  face,  double  chin,  and  fair  long  pipe,  uttering 
clouds  of  tobacco  smoke,  instead  of  idle  speeches  ;  or  Van 
Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  doling  forth  the  contents  of  an, 
ancient  newspaper.    In  place  of  these,  a  lean  bilious-iookmg' 


0 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  49 

fel'iow,  with  his  pockets  full  of  handbills,  was  haranguing 
vehemently  about  rights  of  citizens — election — members  of 
Congress — liberty — Bunker's  hill — heroes  of  seventy-six — 
and  other  words,  that  were  a  perfect  Babylonish  jargon  to  the 
bewildered  Van  Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long,  grizzled  beard,  his 
rusty  fowling  piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  the  army  of  women 
and  children  that  had  gathered  at  his  heels,  soon  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  tavern  politicians.  They  crowded  round  him, 
eyeing  him  from  head  to  foot,  with  great  curiosity.  The 
orator  bustled  up  to  him,  and  drawing  him  partly  aside,  in- 
quired, "  on  which  side  he  voted  ? Rip  stared  in  vacant 
'Stupidity.  Another  short  but  busy  little  fellow  pulled  hirji  by 
the  arm,  and  rising  on  tiptoe,  inquired  in  his  ear,  whether 
lie  was  Federal  or  Democrat.'^  Rip  was  equally  at  a  loss  to 
-comprehend  the  question  ;  when  a  knowing,  self-important  old 
.gentleman,  in  a  sharp  cocked  hat,  made  his  way  through  the 
crowd,  putting  them  to  the  right  and  left  with  his  elbows  as 
he  passed,  and  planting  himself  before  Van  Winkie,  with 
one  arm  a-kimbo,  the  other  resting  on  his  cane,  his  keen  eyes 
and  sharp  hat  penetrating,  as  it  were,  into  his  very  soul,  de- 
manded in  an  austere  tone,  "  what  brought  him  to  the  election 
with  a  gun  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  mob  at  his  heels,  and 
whether  he  meant  to  breed  a  riot  in  the  village  t " 

"Alas!  gentlemen,"  cried  Rip,  somewhat  dismayed,  "I 
am  a  poor,  quiet  man,  a  native  of  the  place,  and  a  loyal  sub- 
ject of  the  King,  God  bless  him  !  " 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders — "  a  tory  ! 
a  tory  !  a  spy  !  a  refugee  !  hustle  him  !  away  with  him  !  " 

It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  the  self-important  man  in 
the  cocked  hat  restored  order ;  and  having  assumed  a  tenfold 
austerity  of  brow,  demanded  again  of  the  unknown  culprit, 
what  he  came  there  for,  and  whom  he  was  seeking.  The 
poor  man  humbly  assured  him  that  he  meant  no  harm,  but 
merely  came  there  in  search  of  some  of  his  neighbors,  who 
tised  to  keep  about  the  tavern. 

4' 


JO  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING.  ^ 

Well — who  are  they  ? — name  them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  mow^mt,  and  inquired,  "  Where's 
Nicholas  Vedder  ? " 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  littk  while,  when  an  old  man 
rephed,  in  a  thin,  piping  voice,  "Nicholas  Vedder?  why,  he 
is  dead  and  gone  these  eighteen  years  !  There  was  a  wooden 
tomb-stone  in  the  church-yard  that  used  to  tell  all  about  him^ 
but  that's  rotten  and  gone  too.'* 

"  Where's  Brom  Dutcher  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of  the  war  ; 
some  say  he  was  killed  at  the  storming  of  Stony-Point — others 
say  he  was  drowned  in  the  squall,  at  the  foot  of  Antony's- 
Nose.    I  don't  know — he  never  came  back  again." 

"  Where's  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster  ?  " 

"  He  went  off  to  the  wars,  too  ;  was  a  great  militia  general^ 
and  is  now  in  Congress." 

Rip's  heart  died  away,  at  hearing  of  these  sad  changes  in 
his  home  and  friends,  and  finding  himself  thus  alone  in  the 
world.  Every  answer  puzzled  him,  too,  by  treating  of  such 
enormous  lapses  of  time,  and  of  matters  which  he  could  not 
understand  :  war — Congress — Stony-Point  ! — he  had  no  cour- 
age to  ask  after  any  more  friends,  but  cried  out  in  despair^ 
Does  nobody  here  know  Rip  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Rip  Van  Wiifkle  !  "  exclaimed  two  or  three.  Oh, 
to  be  sure  !  that's  Rip  Van  Wrinkle  yonder,  leaning  against  the 
tree.'' 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of  himself 
as  he  went  up  the  mountain  ;  apparently  as  lazy,  and  certainly 
as  ragged.  The  poor  fellow  was  now  completely  confounded. 
He  doubted  his  own  identity,  and  whether  he  was  himself  or 
another  man.  In  the  midst  of  his  bewilderment,  the  man  in 
the  cocked  hat  demanded  who  he  was,  and  what  was  his- 
name  ? 

"  God  knows,"  exclaimed  he  at  his  wit's  end  ;  "  I'm  not 
myself — I'm  somebody  else — that's  rne  yonder— no — that's 
somebody  else,  got  into  my  shoes — I  was  myself  last  nighty 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT, 

tut  I  fell  asleep  on  the  mountain,  and  they've  changed  my 
;gun,  and  everything's  changed,  and  I'm  changed,  and  I  can't 
tell  what's  my  name,  or  who  I  am  !  " 

The  by  standers  began  now  to  look  at  each  other,  nod, 
wink  significantly,  and  tap  their  fingers  against  their  fore- 
heads. There  was  a  whisper,  also,  about  securing  the  gun, 
and  keeping  the  old  fellow  from  doing  mischief  ;  at  the  very 
suggestion  of  which,  the  self-important  man  with  the  cocked 
hat  retired  with  some  precipitation.  At  this  critical  moment 
a  fresh  comely  woman  passed  through  the  throng  to  get  a 
peep  at  the  gray-bearded  man.  She  had  a  chubby  child  in  her 
arms,  which,  frightened  at  his  looks,  began  to  cry.  "  Hush, 
Rip,"  cried  she,  "  hush,  you  little  fool ;  the  old  man  won't 
hurt  you."  The  name  of  the  child,  the  air  of  the  mother,  the 
tone  of  her  voice,  all  awakened  a  train  of  recollections  in  his 
>.mind. 

"What  is  your  name,  my  good  wom.an  ? "  asked  he. 

Judith  Gardenier." 
"And  your  father's  name  ?  " 

"  Ah,  poor  man,  his  name  was  Rip  Van  Winkle ;  it's 
twenty  years  since  he  went  away  from  home  with  his  gun,  and 
never  has  been  heard  of  since — his  dog  came  home  without 
him ;  but  whether  he  shot  himself,  or  was  carried  away  by 
the  Indians,  nobody  can  tell.    I  was  then  but  a  little  girl." 

Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask  ;  but  he  put  it  with 
a  faltering  voice  : 

"  Where's  your  mother  ?  " 

Oh,  she  too  had  died  but  a  short  time  since  :  she  broke  a 
blood-vessel  in  a  fit  of  passion  at  a  New-England  pedler. 

There  was  a  drop  of  comfort,  at  least,  in  this  intelligence. 
The  honest  man  could  contain  himself  no  longer.  He  caught 
his  daughter  and  her  chi'ld  in  his  arms.  "  I  am  your  father !  " 
cried  he  —  "Young  Rip  Van  Winkle  once — old  Rip  Van 
'Winkle  now-r— Does  nobody  know  pcor  Rip  Van  Winkle  1 " 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  tottering  out  from 
among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and  peering 


U.  OF  ILL.  LIB. 


^2  'voRKs  OF  Washington  iRyi2\G. 

under  it  in  his  face  for  a  moment,  exclaimed,  Sure  enough  % 
it  is  Rip  Van  Winkle — it  is  himself.  Welcome  home  again^ 
old  neighbor — Why,  where  have  you  been  these  twenty  long 
years  ? " 

Rip^s  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty  years  had 
been  to  him  but  as  one  night.  The  neighbors  stared  when 
they  heard  it ;  some  were  seen  to  wink  at  each  other,  and  put 
their  tongues  in  their  cheeks  ;  and  the  self-important  man  in 
the  cocked  hat,  who,  when  the  alarm  was  over,  had  returned 
to  the  field,  screwed  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and  shook 
his  head — upon  which  there  was  a  general  shaking  of  the  head 
throughout  the  assemblage. 

It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the  opinion  of  old 
Peter  Vanderdonk,  who  was  seen  slowly  advancing  up  the  road 
He  was  a  descendant  of  the  historian  of  that  name,  who  wrote: 
one  of  the  earliest  accounts  of  the  province.    Peter  was  the 
most  ancient  inhabitant  of  the  village,  and  well  versed  in  all 
the  wonderful  events  and  traditions  of  the  neighborhood. 
He  recollected  Rip  at  once,  and  corroborated  his  story  in  the 
most  satisfactory  manner.    He  assured  the  company  that  it 
was  a  fact,  handed  down  from  his  ancestor  the  historian,  that 
the  Kaatskill  mountains  had  always  been  haunted  by  strange- 
beings.    That  it  was  affirmed  that  the  great  Hendrick  Hud- 
son, the  first  discoverer  of  the  river  and  country,  kept  a  kind 
of  vigil  there  every  twenty  years,  with  his  crew  of  the  Half 
moon,  being  permitted  in  this  way  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  his- 
enterprise,  and  keep  a  guardian  eye  upon  the  river  and  the 
great  city  called  by  his  name.    That  his  father  had  once  seen 
them  in  their  old  Dutch  dresses  playing  at  nine-pins  in  the 
hollow  of  the  mountain  ;  and  that  he  himself  had  heard,  one 
summer  afternoon,  the  sound  of  their  balls,  like  distant  peals, 
of  thunder. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company  broke  up,  and 
returned  to  the  more  important  concerns  of  the  election. 
Rip's  daughter  took  him  home  to  live  with  her ;  she  had  a. 
snug,  well-furnished  house,  and  a  stout  cheery  farmer  for  a? 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YOl^,  GENT.  53 

husband,  whom  Rip  recollected  for  one  of  the  urchins  that 
i3sed  to  Climb  upon  his  back.  As  to  Rip's  son  and  heir,  who 
was  the  ditto  of  himself,  seen  leaning  against  the  tree,  he  was 
employed  to  work  on  the  farm  ;  but  evinced  a  hereditary  dis- 
position to  attend  to  anything  else  but  his  business. 

Rip  now  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits  ;  he  soon  found 
many  of  his  former  cronies,  though  all  rather  the  worse  for 
the  wear  and  tear  of  time  j  and  preferred  making  friends 
among  the  rising  generation,  with  whom  he  soon  grew  into 
great  favor. 

Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,,  and  being  arrived  at  that 
Jhappy  age  when  a  man  can  do  nothing  with  impunity,  he 
took  his  place  once  more  on  the  bench,  at  the  inn  door,  and 
was  reverenced  as  one  of  the  patriarchs  of  the  village,  and  a 
chronicle  of  the  old  times  before  the  war.''  It  was  some 
time  before  he  could  get  into  the  regular  track  of  gossip,  or 
could  be  made  to  comprehend  the  strange  events  that  had 
taken  place  during  his  torpor.  How  that  there  had  been  a 
revolutionary  war— that  the  country  had  thrown  off  the  yoke 
of  old  England— and  that,  instead  of  being  a  subject  of  his 
majesty  George  the  Third,  he  was  now  a  free  citizen  of  the 
United  States.  Rip,  in  fact,  was  no  politician  ;  the  chan2:es 
of  states  and  empires  made  but  little  impression  on  him  ;  but 
there  was  one  species  of  despotism  under  which  he  had  long 
groaned,  and  that  was— petticoat  government.  Happily, 
that  was  at  an  end  ;  he  had  got  his  neck  out  of  the  yoke  of 
fnatrimony,  and  could  go  in  and  out  whenever  he  pleased, 
without  dreading  the  tyranny  of  Dame  Van  Winkle.  When- 
ever her  name  was  mentioned,  however,  he  shook  his  head, 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  cast  up  his  eyes  ;  which  might 
pass  either  for  an  expression  of  resignation  to  his  fate,  or  joy 
at  his  deliverance. 

He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger  that  arrived  at 
Mn  Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was  observed,  at  first,  to  vary  on 
some  points  every  time  he  told  it,  which  was  doubtless  owing 
to  his  having  so  recently  awaked.    It  at  last  settled  down  pre- 


S4 


WOJ^/CS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 


cisely  to  the  tale  I  have  related,  and  not  a  man,  woman,  or 
child  in  the  neighborhood,  but  knew  it  by  heart.  Some 
always  pretended  to  doubt  the  reality  of  it,  and  insisted  that 
Rip  had  been  out  of  his  head,  and  that  this  was  one  point  on 
which  he  always  remained  flighty.  The  old  Dutch  inhabi- 
tants, however,  almost  universally  gave  it  full  credit.  Even 
to  this  day,  they  never  hear  a  thunder-storm  of  a  summer 
aftern^^n  about  the  Kaatskill,  but  they  say  Hendrick  Hud- 
son and  his  crew  are  at  their  game  of  nine-pins  ;  and  it  is  a 
conamon  wish  of  all  henpecked  husbands  in  the  neighborhood^ 
when  life  hangs  heavy  on  their  hands,  that  they  might  have  a 
Quieting  draught  out  of  Rip  Van  Winkle's  flagon. 

Note. — The  foregoing  tale,  one  would  suspect,  had  been  suggested  I* 
Mr.  Knickerbocker  by  a  little  German  superstition  about  the  Emperor 
Frederick  der  Kothbart  and  the  Kypphauser  mountain ;  the  subjoined  note,, 
however,  which  he  had  appended  to  the  tale,  shows  that  it  is  an  absolute 
fact,  narrated  with  his  usual  fidelity. 

"The  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  may  seem  incredible  to  many,  but 
nevertheless  I  give  it  my  full  belief,  for  I  know  the  vicinity  of  our  old  Dutch 
settlements  to  have  been  very  subject  to  marvellous  events  and  appearances. 
Indeed,  I  have  heard  many  stranger  stories  than  this,  in  the  villages  along 
the  Hudson  ;  all  of  which  were  too  well  authenticated  to  admit  of  a  doubt. 
I  have  even  talked  with  Rip  Van  Winkle  myself,  who,  when  last  I  sa\^ 
him,  was  a  very  venerable  old  man,  and  so  perfectly  rational  and  consistent 
on  every  other  point,  that  I  think  no  conscientious  person  could  refuse  ta 
take  this  into  the  bargain ;  nay,  I  have  seen  a  certificate  on  the  subject 
taken  before  a  country  justice,  and  signed  with  a  cross,  in  the  justice's 
afin  handwriting.  The  story,  therefore,  is  beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt." 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  £j 


ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA. 

«*  Methinks  I  see  in  my  mind  a  noble  puissant  nation,  rousing  herself 
like  a  strong  man  after  sleep,  and  shaking  her  invincible  locks;  methinks 
I  see  her  as  an  eagle,  mewing  her  mighty  youth,  and  kindling  her  endaz- 
aled  eyes  at  the  full  mid-day  beam/' 

Milton  on  the  Liberty  of  the  Press. 

It  is  with  feelings  of  deep  regret  that  I  observe  the  literary 
animosity  daily  growing  up  between  England  and  America, 
Great  curiosity  has  been  awakened  of  late  with  respect  to  the 
United  States,  and  the  London  press  has  teemed  with  vol- 
umes of  travels  through  the  Republic  ;  but  they  seem  in- 
tended to  diffuse  error  rather  than  knowledge  ;  and  so  suc- 
cessful have  they  been,  that,  notwithstanding  the  constant 
intercourse  between  the  nations,  there  is  no  people  concerning 
whom  the  great  mass  of  the  British  public  have  less  pure  in- 
f  rmation,  or  entertain  more  numerous  prejudices. 

English  travellers  are  the  best  and  the  worst  in  the  world. 
Where  no  motives  of  pride  or  interest  intervene,  none  can 
equal  them  for  profound  and  philosophical  views  of  society, 
or  faithful  and  graphical  descriptions  of  external  objects  ;  but 
when  either  the  interest  or  reputation  of  their  own  country 
comes  in  collision  with  that  of  another,  they  go  to  the  oppo- 
site extreme,  and  forget  their  usual  probity  and  candor,  in  the 
indulgence  of  splenetic  remark,  and  an  illiberal  spirit  of 
ridicule. 

Hence,  their  travels  are  more  honest  and  accurate,  the 
more  remote  the  country  described.  I  would  place  implicit 
confidence  in  an  Englishman's  description  of  the  regions  be- 
yond the  cataracts  of  the  Nile  ;  of  unknown  islands  in  the 
Yellow  Sea ;  of  the  interior  of  Ind^a ;  or  of  any  other  tract 


jfi  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

which  other  travellers  might  be  apt  to  picture  out  with  the 
illusions  of  their  fancies.  But  I  would  cautiously  receive  his 
account  of  his  immediate  neighbors,  and  of  those  nations 
with  which  he  is  in  habits  of  most  frequent  intercourse. 
However  I  might  be  disposed  to  trust  his  probity,  I  dare  not 
trust  his  prejudices. 

It  has  also  been  the  peculiar  lot  of  our  country  to  be 
visited  by  the  worst  kind  of  English  travellers.  While  men 
•of  philosophical  spirit  and  cultivated  minds  have  been  sent 
from  England  to  ransack  the  poles,  to  penetrate  the  deserts, 
and  to  study  the  manners  and  customs  of  barbarous  nations, 
with  which  she  can  have  no  permanent  intercourse  of  profit 
or  pleasure  ;  it  has  been  left  to  the  broken-down  tradesman, 
the  scheming  adventurer,  the  wandering  mechanic,  the  Man- 
chester and  Birmingham  agent,  to  be  her  oracles  respecting 
America.  From  such  sources  she  is  content  to  receive  her 
information  respecting  a  country  in  a  singular  state  of  moral 
and  physical  development ;  a  country  in  which  one  of  the 
greatest  political  experiments  in  the  history  of  the  world  is 
now  performing,  and  which  presents  the  most  profound  and 
momentous  studies  to  the  statesman  and  the  philosopher. 

That  such  men  should  give  prejudiced  accounts  of  America, 
is  not  a  matter  of  surprise.  The  themes  it  offers  for  contem- 
plation, are  too  vast  and  elevated  for  their  capacities.  The 
national  character  is  yet  in  a  state  of  fermentation  :  it  may 
have  its  frothiness  and  sediment,  but  its  ingredients  are  sound 
and  wholesome :  it  has  already  given  proofs  of  powerful  and 
generous  qualities  ;  and  the  whole  promises  to  settle  down 
into  something  substantially  excellent.  But  the  causes  which 
are  operating  to  strengthen  and  ennoble  it,  and  its  daily  indica- 
tions of  admirable  properties,  are  ail  lost  upon  these  purblind 
observers  ;  who  are  only  affected  by  the  little  asperities  inci- 
dent to  its  present  situation.  They  are  capable  of  judging 
only  of  the  surface  of  things  ;  of  those  matters  which  come 
in  contact  with  their  private  interests  and  personal  gratifica- 
tions.   They  miss  some  o£  the  snug  conveniences  and  petty 


SICE  TCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFRE  Y  CRA  YON,  GEN  T.       5  y 


comforts  which  belong  to  an  old,  highly-finished,  and  over- 
populous  state  of  society  \  where  the  ranks  of  useful  labor 
are  crowded,  and  many  earn  a  painful  and  servile  subsistence, 
by  studying  the  very  caprices  of  appetite  and  self-indulgence. 
These  minor  comforts,  however,  are  all-important  in  the  esti- 
mation of  narrow  minds  ;  which  either  do  not  perceive,  or 
will  not  acknowledge,  that  they  are  more  than  counterbalanced 
among  us,  by  great  and  generally  diffused  blessings. 

They  may,  perhaps,  have  been  disappointed  in  some  un- 
ireasonabie  expectation  of  sudden  gain.  They  may  have  pic- 
tured America  to  themselves  an  El  Dorado,  where  gold  and 
silver  abounded,  and  the  natives  were  lacking  in  sagacity 
and  where  they  were  to  become  strangely  and  suddenly  rich, 
in  some  unforeseen  but  easy  manner.  The  same  weakness  of 
mind  that  indulges  absurd  expectations,  produces  petulance 
m  disappointment.  Such  persons  become  embittered  against 
the  country  on  finding  that  there,  as  everywhere  else,  a  man> 
must  sow  before  he  can  reap ;  must  win  wealth  by  industry 
and  talent;  and  must  contend  with  the  common  difficulties 
of  nature,  and  the  shrewdness  of  an  intelligent  and  enter- 
prising people. 

Perhaps,  through  mistaken  or  ill-directed  hospitality,  or 
from  the  prompt  disposition  to  cheer  and  countenance  the 
stranger,  prevalent  among  my  countrymen,  they  may  have 
been  treated  with  unwonted  respect  in  America  \  and,  having 
been  accustomed  all  their  lives  to  consider  themselves  below 
the  surface  of  good  society,  and  brought  up  in  a  servile  feel- 
ing of  inferiority,  they  become  arrogant,  on  the  common  boon 
of  civility  ;  they  attribute  to  the  lowliness  of  others  their  own 
elevation  ;  and  underrate  a  society  where  there  are  no  artifi- 
cial distinctions,  and  where  by  any  chance,  su^h  individuals 
as  themselves  can  rise  to  consequence. 

One  would  suppose,  however,  that  infoj;nation  coming, 
from  such  sources,  on  a  subject  where  the  truth  is  so  desirable, 
would  be  received  with  caution  by  the  censors  of  the  press  \, 
that  the  motives  of  these  men,  their  veracitv,  their  opportuni* 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 


ties  of  inquiry  and  observation,  and  their  capacities  for  judg- 
ing correctly,  would  be  rigorously  scrutinized,  before  their 
evidence  was  admitted,  in  such  sweeping  extent,  against  a 
kindred  nation.  The  very  reverse,  however,  is  the  case,  and 
it  furnishes  a  striking  instance  of  human  inconsistency. 
Nothing  can  surpass  the  vigilance  with  which  English  critics 
will  examine  the  credibility  of  the  traveller  who  publishes  an 
account  of  some  distant,  and  comparatively  unimportant, 
country.  How  warily  will  they  compare  the  measurements 
of  a  pyramid,  or  the  description  of  a  ruin ;  and  how  sternly 
will  they  censure  any  inaccuracy  in  these  contributions  of 
merely  curious  knowledge  ;  while  they  will  receive,  with  eager- 
ness and  unhesitating  faith,  the  gross  misrepresentations  of 
<:oarse  and  obscure  writers,  concerning  a  country  with  which 
their  own  is  placed  in  the  most  important  and  delicate  rela- 
tions. Nay,  they  will  even  make  these  apocryphal  volumes 
text-books,  on  which  to  enlarge,  with  a  zeal  and  an  ability 
worthy  of  a  more  generous  cause. 

I  shall  not,  however,  dwell  on  this  irksome  and  hackneyed 
topic ;  nor  should  I  have  adverted  to  it,  but  for  the  undue  in- 
terest apparently  taken  in  it  by  my  countrymen,  and  certain 
injurious  effects  which  I  apprehend  it  might  produce  upon 
the  national  feeling.  We  attach  too  much  consequence  to 
these  attacks.  They  cannot  do  us  any  essential  injury.  The 
tissue  of  misrepresentations  attempted  to  be  woven  round  us, 
are  like  cobwebs  woven  round  the  limbs  of  an  infant  giant. 
Our  country  continually  outgrows  them.  One  falsehood  after 
another  falls  off  of  itself.  We  have  but  to  live  on,  and  every 
-day  we  live  a  whole  volume  of  refutation.  All  the  writers  of 
England  united,  if  we  could  for  a  moment  suppose  their  great 
minds  stooping  to  so  unworthy  a  combination,  could  not  conceal 
our  rapidly  growing  importance  and  matchless  prosperity.  They 
could  not  conceal  that  these  are  owing,  not  merely  to  physical 
and  local,  but  also  to  moral  causes ; — to  the  political  liberty, 
the  general  diffusion  of  knowledge,  the  prevalence  of  sound, 
tnoral,  and  religious  principles,  which  give  force  and  sustained 


SIC     CH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  CENT.  5^ 

energy  to  the  character  of  a  people  ;  and  which,  in  fact,  have 
been  the  acknowledged  and  wonderful  supporters  of  their  own 
national  power  and  glory. 

But  why  are  we  so  exquisitely  alive  to  the  aspersions  of 
England  ?  Why  do  we  suffer  ourselves  to  be  so  affected  by  the 
contumely  she  has  endeavored  to  cast  upon  us  ?  It  is  not  in 
the  opinion  of  England  alone  that  honor  lives,  and  reputation 
has  its  being.  The  world  at  large  is  the  arbiter  of  a  nation's 
fame  :  with  its  thousand  eyes  it  witnesses  a  nation's  deeds, 
and  from  their  collective  testimony  is  national  glory  or 
national  disgrace  established. 

For  ourselves,  therefore,  it  is  comparatively  of  but  little 
importance  whether  England  does  us  justice  or  not ;  it  is,  per- 
haps, of  far  more  importance  to  herself.  She  is  instilling 
anger  and  resentment  into  the  bosom  of  a  youthful  nation,  \o 
grow  with  its  growth,  and  strengthen  with  its  strength.  If  ia 
America,  as  some  of  her  writers  are  laboring  to  convince  her^ 
she  is  hereafter  to  find  an  invidious  rival,  and  a  gigantic  foe. 
she  may  thank  those  very  writers  for  having  provoked  rival- 
ship,  and  irritated  hostility.  Every  one  knows  the  all-per- 
vadii:g  influence  of  literature  at  the  present  day,  and  how- 
much  the  opinions  and  passions  of  mankind  are  under  its 
control.  The  mere  contests  of  the  sword  are  temporary  ; 
their  wounds  are  but  in  the  flesh,  and  it  is  the  pride  of  the 
generous  to  forgive  and  forget  them ;  but  the  slanders  of  the 
pen  pierce  to  the  heart ;  they  rankle  longest  in  the  noblest 
spirits  ;  they  dwell  ever  present  in  the  mind,  and  render  it  mor- 
bidly sensitive  to  the  most  trifling  collision.  It  is  but  seldom 
that  any  one  overt  act  produces  hostilities  between  two  nations  ; 
there  exists,  most  commonly,  a  previous  jealousy  and  ill-will,  a 
predisposition  to  take  offence.  Trace  these  to  their  cause,  and 
how  often  will  they  be  found  to  originate  in  the  mischievous 
effusions  of  mercenary  writers  ;  who,  secure  in  their  closets^ 
and  for  ignominious  bread,  concoct  and  circulate  the  venom 
that  is  to  inflame  the  generous  and  the  brave. 

1  am  not  laying  too  much  stress  upon  this  point ;  for  it 


go  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 

applies  most  emphatically  to  our  particular  case.  Over  no 
nation  does  the  press  hold  a  more  absolute  control  than  over 
the  people  of  America  ;  for  the  universal  education  of  the 
poorest  classes  makes  every  individual  a  reader.  There  is 
nothing  published  in  England  on  the  subject  of  our  country, 
that  does  not  circulate  through  every  part  of  it.  There  is  not 
a  calumny  dropt  from  an  English  pen,  nor  an  unworthy  sar- 
casm uttered  by  an  English  statesman,  that  does  not  go  to 
blight  good-will,  and  add  to  the  mass  of  lateijt  resentment. 
Possessing,  then,  as  England  does,  the  fountain-head  from 
whence  the  literature  of  the  language  flows,  how  completely  is 
it  in  her  power,  and  how  truly  is  it  her  duty,  to  make  it  the 
medium  of  amiable  and  magnanimous  feeling — a  stream  where 
the  two  nations  might  meet  together,  and  drink  in  peace  and 
kindness.  Should  she,  however,  persist  in  turning  it  to  waters 
of  bitterness,  the  time  may  come  when  she  may  repent  her 
folly.  The  present  friendship  of  America  may  be  of  but  little 
moment  to  her  ;  but  the  future  destinies  of  that  country  do 
not  admit  of  a  doubt :  over  those  of  England,  there  lov/er 
some  shadows  of  uncertainty.  Should,  then,  a  day  of  gloom 
arrive — should  those  reverses  overtake  her,  from  which  the 
proudest  empires  have  not  been  exempt — she  may  look  back 
with  regret  at  her  infatuation,  in  repulsing  from  her  side  a 
nation  she  might  have  grappled  to  her  bosom,  and  thus  de- 
stroying her  only  chance  for  real  friendship  beyond  the  bound' 
aries  of  her  own  dominions. 

There  is  a  general  impression  in  England,  that  the  people 
of  the  United  States  are  inimical  to  the  parent  country.  It 
is  one  of  the  errors  which  has  been  diligently  propagated  by 
■designing  writers.  These  is,  doubtless,  considerable  political 
hostility,  and  a  general  soreness  at  the  illiberality  of  the  Eng- 
lish press  ;  but,  collectively  speaking,  the  prepossessipns  oi 
the  people  are  strongly  in  favor  of  England.  Indeed,  at  one 
time  they  amounted,  in  many  parts  of  the  Union,  tp  an  absuid 
degree  of  bigotry.  The  bare  name  of  Englishman  was  a  pass- 
port to  the  confidence  and  hospitality  of  every  family,  and  too 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYsON,  GENT.  6t 


often  gave  a  transient  currency  to  the  worthless  and  the  un- 
grateful. Throughout  the  country,  there  was  something  of 
enthusiasm  connected  with  the  idea  of  England.  We  looked 
to  it  with  a  hallowed  feeling  of  tenderness  and  veneration,  as 
the  land  of  our  forefathers — the  august  repository  of  the  monu- 
ments and  antiquities  of  our  race — the  birth-place  and  mau« 
soleum  of  the  sages  and  heroes  of  our  paternal  history.  After 
our  own  country,  there  was  none  in  whose  glory  we  more  de- 
lighted— none  whose  good  opinion  we  were  anxious  to  possess 
— none  toward  which  our  hearts  yearned  with  such  throbbings 
of  warm  consanguinity.  Even  during  the  late  war,  whenever 
there  was  the  least  opportunity  for  kind  feelings  to  spring  forth^ 
it  was  the  delight  of  the  generous  spirits  of  our  country  to 
show,  that  in  the  midst  of  hostilities,  they  still  kept  alive  the 
sparks  of  future  friendship. 

Is  all  this  to  be  at  an  end  ?  Is  this  golden  band  of  kindred 
sympathies,  so  rare  between  nations,  to  be  broken  forever  ? — - 
Perhaps  it  is  for  the  best — it  may  dispel  an  allusion  which 
might  have  kept  us  in  mental  vassalage ;  which  might  have 
interfered  occasionally  with  our  true  interests,  and  prevented 
the  growth  of  proper  national  pride.  But  it  is  hard  to  give- 
up  the  kindred  tie  ! — and  there  are  feelings  dearer  than  inter- 
est— closer  to  the  heart  than  pride — that  will  still  make  us  cast 
back  a  look  of  regret  as  we  wander  farther  and  farther  from 
the  paternal  roof,  and  lament  the  waywardness  of  the  parent, 
that  would  repel  the  affections  of  the  child. 

Short-sighted  and  injudicious,  however,  as  the  conduct  of 
England  may  be  in  this  system  of  aspersion,  recrimination  on 
our  part  would  be  equally  ill-  judged.  I  speak  not  of  a  prompt 
and  spirited  vindication  of  our  country,  or  the  keenest  castiga- 
taion  of  her  slanderers— but  I  allude  to  a  disposition  to  retali- 
ate in  kind,  to  retort  sarcasm  and  inspire  prejudice,  which 
seerfis  to  be  spreading  widely  among  our  writers.  Let  us 
guard  particularly  against  such  a  temper  ;  for  it  would  double 
the  evil,  instead  of  redressing  the  wrong.  Nothing  is  so  easy 
5Lnd  invitina  as  the  retort  of  abuse  and  sarcasm  ;  but  it  is  a 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVIN'G, 


paltry  and  unprofitable  contest.  It  is  the  alternative  of  a 
morbid  mind,  fretted  into  petulance,  rather  than  warmed  into 
indignation.  If  England  is  willing  to  permit  the  mean 
jealousies  of  trade,  or  the  rancorous  animosities  of  politics,  to 
deprave  the  integrity  of  her  press,  and  poison  the  fountain  ot 
public  opinion,  let  us  beware  of  her  example.  She  may  deem 
it  her  interest  to  diffuse  error,  and  engender  antipathy,  for 
ihe  purpose  of  checking  emigration  ;  we  have  no  purpose  of 
the  kind  to  serve.  Neither  have  we  any  spirit  of  national 
jealousy  to  gratify  ;  for  as  yetj  in  all  our  rivalships  with  Eng- 
land, we  are  the  rising  and  the  gaining  party.  There  can 
be  no  end  to  answer,  therefore,  but  the  gratification  of  resent- 
ment— a  mere  spirit  of  retaliation  ;  and  even  that  is  impotent. 
Our  retorts  are  never  republished  in  England  ;  they  fall  shon, 
therefore,  of  their  aim  ;  but  they  foster  a  querulous  and  peev- 
ish temper  among  our  writers  ;  they  sour  the  sweet  flow  of  our 
early  literature,  and  sow  thorns  and  brambles  aniong  its  blos- 
soms. What  is  still  worse,  they  circulate  through  our  own 
country,  and,  as  far  as  they  have  effect,  excite  virulent  national 
prejudices.  This  last  is  the  evil  most  especially  to  be  depre- 
cated. Governed,  as  we  are,  entirely  by  public  opinion,  the 
utmost  care  should  be  taken  to  preserve  the  purity  of  the 
public  mind.  Knowledge  is  power,  and  truth  is  knowledge  ; 
whoever,  therefore,  knowingly  propagates  a  prejudice,  wilfully 
saps  the  foundation  of  his  country's  strength. 

The  members  of  a  republic,  above  all  other  men,  should 
be  candid  and  dispassionate.  They  are,  individually,  portions 
of  the  sovereign  mind  and  sovereign  will,  and  should  be  en- 
abled to  come  to  all  questions  of  national  concern  with  calm 
and  unbiassed  judgments.  From  the  peculiar  nature  of  our 
relations  with  England,  we  must  have  more  frequent  questions 
of  a  difficult  and  delicate  character  with  her,  than  with  any 
other  nation  ;  questions  that  affect  the  mo^t  acute  and  excit- 
able feelings  :  and  as,  in  the  adjusting  of  these,  our  national 
measures  must  ultimately  be  determined  by  popular  sentiment, 
we  cannot  be  too  anxiously  attentive  to  purify  it  from 
latent  passion  or  prepossession. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GEA'T. 

Opening  too,  as  we  do,  an  asylum  for  strangers  from  every 
portion  of  the  earth,  we  should  receive  all  with  impartiality. 
It  should  be  our  pride  to  exhibit  an  example  of  one  nation, 
a  >;ast,  destitute  of  national  antipathies,  and  exercising,  not 
merely  the  overt  acts  of  hospitality,  but  those  more  rare  and 
noble  courtesies  which  spring  from  liberality  of  opinion. 

What  have  we  to  do  with  national  prejudices  ?  They  are 
the  inveterate  diseases  of  old  countries,  contracted  in  rude  and 
ignorant  ages,  when  nations  knew  but  little  c  f  each  other, 
and  looked  beyond  their  own  boundaries  with  distrust  and 
hostility.  We,  on  the  contrary,  have  sprung  into  national  ex- 
istence in  an  enlightened  and  philosophic  age,  when  the  differ- 
ent parts  of  the  habitable  world,  and  the  various  branches  of 
the  human  family,  have  been  indefatigably  studied  and  made 
known  to  each  other ;  and  we  forego  the  advantages  of  our 
birth,  if  we  do  not  shake  off  the  national  prejudices,  as  we 
would  the  local  superstitions,  of  the  old  world. 

^  But  above  all,  let  us  not  be  influenced  by  any  angry  feel- 
ings, so  far  as  to  shut  our  eyes  to  the  perception  of  what  is 
really  excellent  and  amiable  in  the  English  character.  We  are 
a  young  people,  necessarily  an  imitative  one,  and  must  take  our 
examples  and  models,  in  a  great  degree,  from  the  existing 
nations  of  Europe.  There  is  no  country  more  worthy  of  our 
study  than  England.  The  spirit  of  her  constitution  is  most 
analogous  to  ours.  The  manners  of  her  people — their  intel- 
lectual activity — their  freedom  of  opinion — their  habits  of 
thinking  on  those  subjects  which  concern  the  dearest  interests 
and  most  sacred  charities  of  private  life,  are  all  congenial  to 
the  American  character ;  and,  in  fact,  are  all  intrinsically  ex- 
cellent :  for  it  is  in  the  moral,  feeling  of  the  people  that  the 
deep  foundations  of  British  prosperity  are  laid  ;  and  however 
the  superstructure  may  be  time-worn,  or  overrun  by  abuses, 
there  must  be  something  solid  in  the  basis,  admirable  in  the 
materials,  and  stable  in  the  structure  of  an  edifice  that  so 
long  has  towered  unshaken  amidst  the  tempests  of  the  world. 

J.et  it  be  the  pride  of  our  writers,  therefore,  discarding  all 


64  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 

feelings  of  irritation,  and  disdaining  to  retaliate  the  illiberality. 
of  British  authors,  to  speak  of  the  English  nation  without  prej- 
udice, and  with  determined  candor.  While  they  rebuke  the- 
indiscriminating  bigotry  with  which  some  of  our  countrymen 
admire  and  imitate  everything  English,  merely  because  it  is 
English,  let  them  frankly  point  out  what  is  really  worthy  of 
approbation.  We  may  thus  place  England  before  us  as  a 
perpetual  volume  of  reference,  wherein  are  recorded  sound  de- 
ductions from  ages  of  experience  \  and  while  we  avoid  the 
errors  and  absurdities  which  may  have  crept  into  the  page,  we. 
may  draw  thence  golden  maxims  of  practical  wisdom,  where^ 
with  to  strengthen  and  to  embellish  our  national  character. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GJ:lOFFREY  CRAYoN^  GENT.  tiH 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND. 

Oh  !  friendly  to  the  best  pursuits  of  man, 
Friendly  to  thought,  to  virtue,  and  to  peace, 
Domestic  life  in  rural  pleasures  past  1 

COWPER. 

The  stranger  who  would  form  a  correct  opinion  of  the  Eng- 
lish character,  must  not  confine  his  observations  to  the  me- 
tropolis. He  must  go  forth  into  the  country  j  he  must  sojourn 
in  villages  and  hamlets ;  he  must  visit  castles,  villas,  farm- 
liouses,  cottages ;  he  must  wander  through  parks  and  gardens ; 
along  hedges  and  green  lanes ;  he  must  loiter  about  countrj' 
churches  \  attend  wakes  and  fairs,  and  other  rural  festivals  ; 
and  cope  with  the  people  in  all  their  conditions,  and  all  their 
habits  and  humors. 

In  some  countries,  the  large  cities  absorb  the  wealth  and 
fashion  of  the  nation  \  they  are  the  only  fixed  abodes  of  elegant 
and  intelligent  society,  and  the  country  is  inhabited  almost 
entirely  by  boorish  peasantry.  In  England,  on  the  contrary, 
the  metropolis  is  a  mere  gathering  place,  or  general  rendez- 
vous, of  the  polite  classes,  where  they  devote  a  small  portion 
of  the  year  to  a  hurry  of  gayety  and  dissipation,  and  having  in- 
dulged this  kind  of  carnival,  return  again  to  the  apparently 
more  congenial  habits  of  rural  life.^  The  various  orders  of 
society  are  therefore  diffused  over  the  whole  surface  of  the 
kingdom,  and  the  most  retired  neighborhoods  afford  speci- 
mens of  the  different  ranks. 

The  English,  in  fact,  are  strongly  gifted  with  the  rural  feejing. 
They  possess  a  quick  sensibility  to  the  beauties  of  nature,  and 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 


a  keen  relish  for  the  pleasures  and  employments  of  the  country; 
This  passion  seems  inherent  in  them.  Even  the  inhabitants 
of  cities,  born  and  brought  up  among  brick  walls  and  bus- 
tling streets,  enter  with  facility  into  rural  habits,  and  evince  a 
tact  for  rural  occupation.  The  merchant  has  his  snug  retreat 
in- the  vicinity  of  the  metropolis,  where  he  often  displays  as 
much  pride  and  zeal  in  the  cultivation  of  his  flower-garden^ 
and  the  maturing  of  his  fruits,  as  he  does  in  the  conduct  of 
his  business,  and  the  success  of  a  commercial  enterprise. 
Even  those  less  fortunate  individuals,  who  are  doomed  to  pass 
their  lives  in  the  midst  of  din  and  traffic,  contrive  to  have 
something  that  shall  remind  them  of  the  green  aspect  of  nature. 
In  the  most  dark  and  dingy  quarters  of  the  city,  the  drawing- 
room  window  resembles  frequently  a  bank  of  flowers  ;  every 
spot  capable  of  vegetation  has  its  grass-plot  and  flower-bed  ;, 
and  every  square  its  mimic  park,  laid  out  with  picturesque 
taste,  and  gleaming  with  refreshing  verdure. 

Those  who  see  the  Englishman  only  in  town,  are  apt  ta 
form  an  unfavorable  opinion  of  his  social  character.  He 
is  either  absorbed  in  business,  or  distracted  by  the  thousand 
engagements  that  dissipate  time,  thought,  and  feeling,  in  this 
huge  metropolis.  He  has,  therefore,  too  commonly,  a  look  of 
hurry  and  abstraction.  Wherever  he  happens  to  be,  he  is  on 
the  point  of  going  somewhere  else  ;  at  the  moment  he  is  talk- 
ing on  one  subject,  his  mind  is  wandering  to  another;  and 
while  paying  a  friendly  visit,  he  is  calculating  how  he  shall 
economize  time  so  as  to  pay  the  other  visits  allotted  to  the 
morning.  An  immense  metropolis,  like  London,  is  calculated 
to  make  men  selfish  and  uninteresting.  In  their  casual  and 
transient  meetings,  they  can  but  deal  briefly  in  commonplaces. 
They  present  but  the  cold  superfices  of  charncter — its  rich  and 
genial  qualities  have  no  time  to  be  warmed  into  a  flov/. 

It  is  in  the  country  that  the  Englishman  ^nves  scope  to  his 
natural  feelings.  He  breaks  loose  gladly  from  the  cold  for- 
malities and  negative  civilities  of  town  ;  throws  off  his  habits 
of  shy  reserve,  and  becomes  joyous  and  free-hearted.  He 


SKETCH-'BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT,  67 

tnanages  to  collect  round  him  all  the  conveniences  and  ele- 
gancies of  polite  life,  and  to  banish  it3  restraints.  His  country 
seat  abounds  with  every  requisite,  either  for  studious  retire- 
ment,  tasteful  gratification,  or  rural  exercise.  Books,  paintings, 
vTiusic,  horses,  dogs,  and  sporting  implements  of  all  kinds,  are 
at  hand.  He  puts  no  constraint,  either  upon  his  guests  or  him- 
self, but,  in  the  true  spirit  of  hospitality,  provides  the  means 
of  enjoyment,  and  leaves  everyone  to  partake  according  to 
his  inclination. 

The  taste  of  the  English  in  the  cultivation  of  land,  and  in 
what  is  called  landscape  gardening,  is  unrivalled.  They  have 
studied  Nature  intently,  and  discovered  an  exquisite  sense  of 
her  beautiful  forms  and  harmonious  combinations.  Those 
■charms  which,  in  other  countries,  she  lavishes  in  wild  solitudes, 
are  here  assembled  round  the  haunts  of  domestic  life.  They 
seem  to  have  caught  her  coy  and  furtive  graces,  and  spread 
■them,  like  witchery,  about  their  rural  abodes. 

Nothing  can  be  more  imposing  than  the  magnificence  of 
English  park  scenery.  Vast  lawns  that  extend  like  sheets  of 
-vivid  green,  with  here  and  there  clumps  of  gigantic  trees, 
heaping  up  rich  piles  of  foliage.  The  solemn  pomp  of  groves 
and  woodland  glades,  with  the  deer  trooping  in  silent  herds 
across  them  ;  the  hare,  bounding  away  to  the  covert ;  or  the 
pheasant,  suddenly  bursting  upon  the  wing.  The  brook,  taught 
to  wind  in  natural  meanderings,  or  expand  into  a  glassy  lake 
— the  sequestered  pool,  reflecting  the  quivering  trees,  with  the 
yellow  leaf  sleeping  on  its  bosom,  and  the  trout  roaming  fear- 
lessly about  its  Hmpid  waters  :  while  some  rustic  temple,  or 
■sylvan  statue,  grown  green  and  dank  with  age,  gives  an  aif 
•of  classic  sanctity  to  the  seclusion. 

These  are  but  a  few  of  the  features  of  park  scenery  :  but 
what  most  delights  me,  is  the  creative  talent  with  which  the 
English  decorate  the  unostentatious  abodes  of  midale  life. 
The  rudest  habitation,  the  most  unpromising  and  scanty  por- 
tion of  land,  in  the  hands  of  an  Englishman  of  taste,  becomes 
a  little  paradise.    With  a  nicely  discriminating  eye,  he  seizes 


68 


WORI^S  OF  WASHTNGIVN"  IRVING. 


at  once  upon  its  capabilities,  and  pictures  in  his  mind  the 
future  landscape.  The  sterile  spot  grows  into  loveliness, 
under  his  hand ;  and  yet  the  operations  of  art  which  produce 
the  effect  are  scarcely  to  be  perceived.  The  cherishing  and 
training  of  some  trees  ;  the  cautious  pruning  of  others  ;  the 
nice  distribution  of  flowers  and  plants  of  tender  and  graceful 
foliage  ;  the  introduction  of  a  green  slope  of  velvet  turf ;  the 
partial  opening  to  a  peep  of  blue  distance,  or  silver  gleam  of 
water— all  these  are  managed  with  a  delicate  tact,  a  pervad- 
ing yet  quiet  assiduity,  like  the  magic  touchings  with  which  a. 
painter  finishes  up  a  favorite  picture. 

The  residence  of  people  of  fortune  and  refinement  in  the 
country,  has  diffused  a  degree  of  taste  -and  elegance  in  rural 
economy,  that  descends  to  the  lov/est  class.     The  verjr 
laborer,  with  his  thatched  cottage  and  narrow  slip  of  ground, 
attends  to  their  embellishment.    The  trim  hedge,  the  grass- 
plot  before  the  door,  the  little  flower-bed  bordered  with  snug 
box,  the  woodbine  trained  up  against  the  wall,  and  hanging; 
its  blossoms  about  the  lattice  ;  the  pot  of  flowers,  in  the 
window ;  the  holly,  providently  planted  about  the  house,  tO' 
cheat  winter  of  its  dreariness,  and  to  throw  in  a  semblance  of 
green  summer  to  cheer  the  fireside ; — all  these  bespeak  the 
influence  of  taste,  flowing  down  from  high  sources,  and  per- 
vading  the  lowest  levels  of  the  pyblic  mind.    If  ever  Love^. 
as  poets  sing,  delights  to  visit  a  cottage,  it  must  be  the  cot- 
tage of  an  English  peasant. 

The  fondness  for  rural  life  among  the  higher  classes  of 
the  English,  has  had  a  great  and  salutary  effect  upon  the  na- 
tional character.  I  do  not  know  a  finer  race  of  men  than  the 
English  gentlemen.  Instead  of  the  softness  and  effeminacy 
which  characterize  the  men  of  rank  in  most  countries,  they 
exhibit  an  union  of  elegance  and  strength,  a  robustness  of 
frame  and  freshness  of  complexion,  which  I  am  inclined  to 
attribute  to  their  living  so  much  in  the  open  air,  and  pursuing 
so  eagerly  the  invigorating  recreations  of  the  country.  The 
iardy  exercises  produce  also  a  healthful  tone  of  mind  and 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT  6g 

spirits,  and  a  manliness  and  simplicity  of  manners,  which 
even  the  follies  and  dissipations  of  the  town  cannot  easily 
pervert,  and  can  never  entirely  destroy.  In  the  country,  too, 
the  different  order^  '^f  society  seem  to  approach  more  freely, 
to  be  more  dispos^^d  to  blend  and  operate  favorably  upon 
each  other.  The  distinction  between  them  do  not  appear  to 
j.be  so  marked  and  impassable,  as  in  the  cities.  The  manner 
'  in  which  property  has  been  distributed  into  small  estates  and 
farms,  has  established  a  regular  gradation  from  the  noblemen, 
through  the  classes  of  gentry,  small  landed  proprietors,  and 
substantial  farmer,  down  to  the  laboring  peasantry ;  and 
while  it  has  thus  banded  the  extremes  of  society  together, 
has  infused  into  each  intermediate  rank  a  spirit  of  indepen- 
dence. This,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  not  so  universally  the 
case  at  present  as  it  was  formerly  ;  the  larger  estates  hav- 
ing, in  late  years  Df  distress,  absorbed  the  smaller,  and,  in 
some  parts  of  the  country,  almost  annihilated  the  sturdy  race 
of  small  farmers.  These,  however,  I  believe,  are  but  casual 
breaks  in  the  general  system  I  have  mentioned. 

In  rural  occupation,  there  is  nothing  mean  and  debasing^ 
It  leads  a  man  forth  among  scenes  of  natural  grandeur  and 
beauty ;  it  leaves  him  to  the  workings  of  his  own  mind,  op- 
erated upon  by  the  purest  and  most  elevating  of  external  in- 
fluences. Such  a  man  may  be  simple  and  rough,  but  he  can- 
not be  vulgar.  The  man  of  refinement,  therefore,  finds  noth- 
ing revolting  in  an  intercourse  with  the  lower  orders  in  rural 
life,  as  he  does  when  he  casually  mingles  with  the  lower 
orders  of  cities.  He  lays  aside  his  distance  and  reserve,  and 
is  glad  to  waive  the  distinctions  of  rank,  and  to  enter  into  the 
tonest,  heartfelt  enjoyments  of  common  life.  Indeed,  the 
very  amusements  of  the  country  bring  men  more  and  more  to- 
gether ;  and  the  sound  of  hound  and  horn  blend  all  feelings 
into  harmony.  I  believe  this  is  one  great  reason  why  the  no- 
bility and  gentry  are  more  popular  among  the  inferior  orders  in 
England,  than  they  are  in  any  other  country  :  and  why  the  lat- 
f    have  endured  so  many  excessive  pressures  and  extremities^ 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 

without  repining  more  generally  at  the  unequal  distribution  of 
fortune  and  privilege. 

To  this  mingling  of  cultivated  and  rustic  society,  may 
also  be  attributed  the  rural  feeling  that  runs  through  British 
literature  ;  the  frequent  use  of  illustrations  from  rural  life  ; 
those  incomparable  descriptions  of  Nature,  that  abound  in 
the  British  poets — that  have  continued  down  from  "  the  Flower 
and  the  Leaf  "  of  Chaucer,  and  have  brought  into  our  closets 
all  the  freshness  and  fragrance  of  the  dewy  landscape.  The 
pastoral  writers  of  other  countries  appear  as  if  they  had  paid 
Nature  an  occasional  visit,  and  become  acquainted  with  her 
general  charms ;  but  the  British  poets  have  lived  and  revelled 
with  her — they  have  wooed  her  in  her  most  secret  haunts — 
they  have  watched  her  minutest  caprices.  A  spray  could  not 
tremble  in  the  breeze — a  leaf  could  not  rustle  to  the  ground 
— a  diamond  drop  could  not  patter  in  the  stream — a  fragrance 
could  not  exhale  from  the  humble  violet,  nor  a  daisy  unfold 
its  crimson  tints  to  the  morning,  but  it  has  been  noticed  by 
these  impassioned  and  delicate  observers,  and  wrought  up  into 
some  beautiful  morality. 

The  effect  of  this  devotion  of  elegant  minds  to  rural  oc- 
cupations, has  been  wonderful  on  the  face  of  the  country.  A. 
great  part  of  the  island  is  rather  level,  and  would  be  monot- 
onous, were  it  not  for  the  charms  of  culture  ;  but  it  is  studded 
and  gemmed,  as  it  were,  with  castles  and  palaces,  and  em- 
broidered with  parks  and  gardens.  It  does  not  abound  ia 
grand  and  sublime  prospects,  but  rather  in  little  home  scenes 
of  rural  repose  and  sheltered  quiet.  Every  antique  farm-house 
and  moss-grown  cottage  is  a  picture  ;  and  as  the  roads  are 
continually  winding,  and  the  view  is  shut  in  by  groves  and 
hedges,  the  eye  is  delighted  by  a  continual  succession  of 
small  landscapes  of  captivating  loveliness. 

The  great  charm,  however,  of  English  scenery,  is  the 
moral  feeling  that  seems  to  pervade  it.  It  is  associated  in 
the  mind  witn  ideas  of  order,  of  quiet,  of  sober  well-established 
principles,  of  hoary  usage  and  reverend  custom.  Everything: 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  ji. 

seems  to  be  the  growth  of  ages  of  regular  and  peaceful  ex- 
istence. The  old  church,  of  remote  architecture,  with  its  low 
massive  portal ;  its  gothic  tower  ;  its  windows,  rich  with  tra- 
cery and  painted  glass,  in  scrupulous  preservation — its  stately 
nK)numents  of  warriors  and  worthies  of  the  olden  time,  an- 
cestors of  the  present  lords  of  the  soil — its  tombstones,  re- 
cording successive  generations  of  sturdy  yeomanry,  whose  pro- 
geny still  plough  the  same  fields,  and  kneel  at  the  same  altar 
— the  pai^onage,  a  quaint  irregular  pile,  partly  antiquated, 
but  repaired  and  altered  in  the  tastes  of  various  ages  and  oc- 
cupants— the  stile  and  footpath  leading  from  the  church-yard, 
across  pleasant  fields,  and  along  shady  hedge- rows,  according 
to  an  immenfiorable  right  of  w^ay — the  neighboring  village,  with 
its  venerable  cottages,  its  public  green,  sheltered  by  trees,  un- 
der which  the  forefathers  of  the  present  race  have  sported — the 
antique  family  mansion,  standing  apart  in  some  little  rural 
domain,  but  looking  down  with  a  protecting  air  on  the  sur- 
rounding scene — all  these  common  features  of  English  land- 
scape evince  a  calm  and  settled  security,  a  hereditary  trans- 
mission of  homebred  virtues  and  local  attachments,  that 
speak  deeply  and  touchingly  for  the  moral  character  of  the 
nation. 

It  is  a  pleasing  sight,  of  a  Sunday  morning,  when  the  bell 
is  sending  its  sober  nielody  across  the  quiet  fields,  to  behold 
the  peasantry  in  their  best  finery,  with  ruddy  faces,  and 
modest  cheerfulness,  thronging  tranquilly  along  the  green 
lanes  to  church  ;  but  it  is  still  more  pleasing  to  see  them  in 
the  evenings,  gathering  about  their  cottage  doors,  and  ap- 
pearing to  exult  in  the  humble  comforts  and  embellishments 
which  their  own  hands  have  spread  around  them. 

It  is  this  sweet  home  feeling,  this  settled  repose  of  affec- 
tion in  the  domestic  scene,  that  is,  after  all,  the  parent  of  the 
steadiest  virtues  and  purest  enjoyments  ;  and  I  cannot  close 
these  desultory  remarks  better,  than  by  quoting  the  words  of 
a  modern  English  poet,  who  has  depicted  it  with  remarkable 
felicity. 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


Through  each  gradation,  from  the  castled  hall, 
The  city  dome,  the  villa  crowned  with  shade. 
But  chief  from  modest  mansions  numberless, 
In  town  or  hamlet,  shelt'ring  middle  life, 
Down  to  the  cottaged  vale,  and  straw-roof'd  shed, 
This  western  isle  has  long  been  famed  for  scenes 
Where  bliss  domestic  finds  a  dwelling-place : 
Domestic  bliss,  that  like  a  harmless  dove 
(Honor  and  sweet  endearment  keeping  guard), 
Can  centre  in  a  little  quiet  nest 
All  that  desire  would  fly  for  through  the  earth  \ 
That  can,  the  world  "Eluding,  be  itself 
A  world  enjoyed ;  that  wants  no  witnesses 
But  its  own  sharers,  and  approving  Heaven. 
That,  like  a  flower  deep  hid  in  rocky  cleft, 
Smiles,  though  'tis  looking  only  at  the  sky  * 

*  From  a  poem  on  the  death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte,  by  the  ReT« 
CTCnd  Rann  Kennedy,  A.  M. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON.  GENT. 


THE  BROKEN  HEART. 

I  never  heard 
Of  any  true  affection,  but  'twas  nipt 
With  care,  that,  like  the  caterpillar,  eats 
The  leaves  of  the  spring's  sweetest  book,  the  rose. 

MiDDLETON. 

It  is  a  common  practice  with  those  who  have  outlived  the 
M^sceptibility  of  early  feeling,  or  have  been  brought  up  in  the 
^ay  heartlessness  of  dissipated  life,  to  laugh  at  all  love  stories, 
and  to  treat  the  tales  of  romantic  passion  as  mere  fictions  of 
novelists  and  poets.  My  observations  on  human  nature  have 
induced  me  to  think  otherwise.  They  have  convinced  me, 
that  however  the  surface  of  the  character  may  be  chilled 
and  frozen  by  the  cares  of  the  world,  or  cultivated  into 
mere  smiles  by  the  arts  of  society,  still  there  are  dormant  fires 
lurking  in  the  depths  of  the  coldest  bosom,  which,  when  once 
enkindled,  become  impetuous,  and  are  sometimes  desolating  in 
their  effects.  Indeed,  I  am  a  true  believer  in  the  blind  deity, 
and  go  to  the  full  extent  of  his  doctrines.  Shall  I  confess  it  ? 
— I  believe  in  broken  hearts,  and  the  possibility  of  dying  of 
disappointed  love  !  I  do  not,  however,  consider  it  a  malady 
often  fatal  to  my  own  sex ;  but  I  firmly  believe  that  it  withers 
down  many  a  lovely  woman  into  an  early  grave. 

Man  is  the  creature  of  interest  and  ambition.  His  nature 
leads  him  forth  into  the  struggle  and  bustle  of  the  world. 
Love  is  but  the  erribellishment  of  his  early  life,  or  a  song  piped 
in  the  intervals  of  the  acts.  He  seeks  for  fame,  for  fortune, 
for  space  in  the  world's  thought,  and  dominion  over  his  fel- 
iow-men.    But  a  woman's  whole  life  is  a  history  of  the  affec- 


y4  WORKS  OF  IVASIIINGTON  IRVmG, 

tion.  The  heart  is  her  world  ;  it  is  there  her  ambition  strives 
for  empire — it  is  there  her  avarice  seeks  for  hidden  treasures. 
She  sends  forth  her  sympathies  on  adventure  ;  she  embarks 
her  whole  soul  in  the  traffic  of  affection  ;  and  if  shipwrecked, 
her  case  is  hopeless — for  it  is  a  bankruptcy  of  the  heart. 

To  a  man,  the  disappointment  of  love  may  occasion  some 
bitter  pangs  :  it  wounds  some  feelings  of  tenderness — it  blasts 
some  prospects  of  felicity;  but  he  is  an  active  being;  he 
may  dissipate  his  thoughts  in  the  v/hirl  of  varied  occupation, 
or  may  plunge  into  the  tide  of  pleasure  ;  or,  if  the  scene  of 
disappointment  be  too  full  of  painful  associations,  he  can  shift 
his  abode  at  will,  and  taking,  as  it  were,  the  wings  of  the 
morning,  can  "  fly  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth,  and  be 
at  rest." 

But  woman's  is  comparatively  a  fixed,  a  secluded,  anc?  a 
meditative  life.  She  is  more  the  companion  of  her  own 
thoughts  and  feelings  ;  and  if  they  are  turned  to  ministers  of 
sorrow,  where  shall  she  look  for  consolation  ?  Her  lot  is  to 
be  v/ooed  and  won  ;  and  if  unhappy  In  her  love,  her  heart  is 
like  some  fortress  that  has  been  captured,  and  sacked,  and 
abandoned,  and  left  desolate. 

How  many  bright  eyes  grow  dim — ^-^Vvv  many  soft  cheeks 
grow  pale — how  many  lovely  forms  fade  away  into  the  tomb, 
and  none  can  tell  the  cause  that  blighted  their  loveliness  ii 
As  the  dove  will  clasp  its  wings  to  its  side,  and  cover  and 
conceal  the  arrow  that  is  preying  on  its  vitals — so  is  it  the 
nature  of  woman,  to  hide  from  the  world  the  pangs  of 
wounded  affection.  The  love  of  a  delicate  female  is  always 
shy  and  silent.  Even  when  fortunate,  she  scarcely  breathes 
it  to  herself  ;  but  when  otherv/ise,  she  buries  it  in  the  recesses 
of  her  bosom,  and  there  lets  it  cower  and  brood  among  the 
ruins  of  her  peace.  With  her,  the  desire  of  her  heart  has 
failed — the  great  charm  of  existence  is  at  an  end.  She  ne- 
glects all  the  cheerful  exercises  which  gladden  the  spirits, 
quicken  the  pulses,  and. send  the  tide  of  life  in  healthful  cur- 
rents through  the  veins.    Her  rest  is  broken — the  sweet  re- 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  75 

freshment  of  sleep  is  poisoned  by  melancholy  dreams — dry 
sorrow  drinks  her  blood/*  until  her  enfeebled  frame  sinks 
under  the  slightest  external  injury.  Look  for  her,  after  a 
while,  and  you  find  friendship  weeping  over  her  untimely 
grave,  and  wondering  that  one,  who  but  lately  glowed  with 
all  the  radiance  of  health  and  beauty,  should  so  speedily  be 
brought  down  to  "  darkness  and  the  worm."  You  will  be  told 
of  some  wintry  chill,  some  casual  indisposition,  that  laid  her 
low — but  no  one  knows  the  mental  malady  that  previously 
sapped  her  strength,  and  made  her  so  easy  a  prey  to  the 
spoiler. 

She  is  like  some  tender  tree,  the  pride  and  beauty  of  the 
grove  :  graceful  in  its  form,  bright  in  its  foliage,  but  with  the 
worm  preying  at  its  heart.  We  find  it  suddenly  withering, 
when  it  should  be  most  fresh  and  luxuriant.  We  see  it  droop- 
ing its  branches  to  the  earth,  and  shedding  leaf  by  leaf;  until, 
wasted  and  perished  away,  it  falls  even  in  the  stillness  of  the 
forest ;  and  as  we  muse  over  the  beautiful  ruin,  we  strive  in 
■/ain  to  recollect  the  blast  or  thunderbolt  that  could  have 
*imitten  it  with  decay. 

I  have  seen  many  instances  of  women  running  to  waste 
a.nd  self-neglect,  and  disappearing  gradually  from  the  earth, 
almost  as  if  they  had  been  exhaled  to  heaven  ;  and  have  re- 
peatedly fancied,  that  I  could  trace  their  deaths  through  the 
various  declensions  of  consumption,  cold,  debility,  languor, 
melancholy,  until  I  reached  the  first  symptom  of  disappointed 
Jove.  But  an  instance  of  the  kind  w^as  lately  told  to  me  ;  the 
circumstances  are  well  known  in  the  country  where  they  hap- 
pened, and  I  shall  but  give  them  in  the  manner  in  which  they 
were  related. 

Everyone  mrast  recollect  the  tragical  story  of  young 
E  ,  the  Irish  patriot :  it  v/as  too  touching  to  be  soon  for- 
gotten. During  the  troubles  in  Ireland  he  was  tried,  con- 
demned, and  executed,  on  a  charge  of  treason.  His  fate 
made  a  deep  impression  on  public  sympathy.  He  was  so 
young — so  intelligent — so  generous — so  brave — so  everything 


y5  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 

that  we  are  apt  to  like  in  a  young  man.  His  conduct  under 
trial,  too,  was  so  lofty  and  intrepid.  The  noble  indignation 
with  which  he  repelled  the  charge  of  treason  against  his  coun- 
try— the  eloquent  vindication  of  his  name — and  his  pathetic 
appeal  to  posterity,  in  the  hopeless  hour  of  condemnation—-- 
all  these  entered  deeply  into  every  generous  bosom,  and  even 
his  enemies  lamented  the  stern  policy  that  dictated  his  exe- 
cution. 

But  there  was  one  heart,  whose  anguish  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  describe.  In  happier  days  and  fairer  fortunes,  he 
had  won  the  affections  of  a  beautiful  and  interesting  girl,  the 
daughter  of  a  late  celebrated  Irish  barrister.  She  loved  him 
with  the  disinterested  fervor  of  a  woman's  first  and  early 
love.  When  every  worldly  maxim  arrayed  itself  against  him  ; 
when  blasted  in  fortune,  and  disgrace  and  danger  darkened 
around  his  name,  she  loved  him  the  more  ardently  for  his 
very  sufferings.  If,  then,  his  fate  could  awaken  the  sympathy 
even  of  his  foes,  what  must  have  been  the  agony  of  her,  whose 
whole  soul  was  occupied  by  his  image  ?  Let  those  tell  who 
have  had  the  portals  of  the  tomb  suddenly  closed  between 
them  and  the  being  they  most  loved  on  earth — who  have  sat 
at  its  threshold,  as  one  shut  out  in  a  cold  and  lonely  world, 
from  whence  all  that  was  most  lovely  and  loving  had  de- 
parted. 

But  then  the  horrors  of  such  a  grave  ! — so  frightful,  so 
dishonored !  There  was  nothing  for  memory  to  dwell  on 
that  could  soothe  the  pang  of  separation — none  of  those  ten- 
der, though  melancholy  circumstances,  that  endear  the  parting 
scene — nothing  to  melt  sorrow  into  those  blessed  tears,  sent, 
like  the  dews  of  heaven,  to  revive  the  heart  in  the  parting 
hour  of  anguish. 

To  render  her  widowed  situation  more  desolate,  she  had 
incurred  her  father's  displeasure  by  her  unfortunate  attach- 
ment, and  was  an  exile  from  the  paternal  roof.  But  could  the 
sympathy  and  kind  offices  of  friends  have  reached  a  spirit  so 
shocked  and  driven  in  by  horror,  she  would  have  experienced 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  77 

no  want  of  consolation,  for  the  Irish  are  a  people  of  quick 
and  generous  sensibilities.  The  most  delicate  and  cherishing 
attentions  were  paid  her,  by  families  of  wealth  and  distinction. 
She  was  led  into  society,  and  they  tried  by  all  kinds  of  occu- 
pation and  amusement  to  dissipate  her  grief,  and  wean  her 
( from  the  tragical  story  of  her  loves.  But  it  was  all  in  vain. 
There  are  some  strokes  of  calamity  that  scathe  and  scorch  the 
soul — ^:hat  penetrate  to  the  vital  seat  of  happiness — and  blast 
it,  never  again  to  put  forth  bud  or  blossom.  She  never  objected 
to  frequent  the  haunts  of  pleasure,  but  she  was  as  much 
alone  there,  as  in  the  depths  of  solitude.  She  walked  about 
in  a  sad  reverie,  apparently  unconscious  of  the  world  around 
her.  She  carried  with  her  an  inward  woe  that  mocked  at  all 
the  blandishm.ents  of  friendship,  and  heeded  not  the  song 
of  the  charmer,  charm  he  never  so  wisely." 

The  person  who  told  me  her  story  had  seen  her  at  a  mas- 
querade. There  can  be  no  exhibition  of  far-gone  wretchedness 
more  striking  and  painful  than  to  meet  it  in  such  a  scene.. 
To  find  it  wandering  like  a  spectre,  lonely  and  joyless,  where 
all  around  is  gay — to  see  it  dressed  out  in  the  trappings  of 
mirth,  atid  looking  so  wan  and  wo-begone,  as  if  it  had  tried  in 
vain  to  cheat  the  poor  heart  into  a  momentary  forgetfulness 
of  sorrow.  After  strolling  through  the  splendid  rooms  and 
giddy  cv-owd  with  an  air  of  utter  abstraction,  she  sat  herself 
down  on  the  steps  of  an  orchestra,  and  looking  about  for  some 
time  with  a  vacant  air,  that  showed  her  insensibility  to  the 
garish  scene,  she  began,  with  the  capriciousness  of  a  sickly 
heart,  to  warble  a  little  plaintive  air.  She  had  an  exquisite 
voice ;  but  on  this  occasion  it  was  so  simple,  so  touching — 
it  breathed  forth  such  a  soul  of  wretchedness — that  she  drew 
a  crowd,  mute  and  silent,  around  her,  and  melted  everyone 
into  tears. 

The  story  of  one  so  true  and  tender  could  not  but  excite 
great  interest  in  a  country  remarkable  for  enthusiasm.  It 
completely  won  the  heart  of  a  brave  officer,  who  paid  his  ad- 
.  dresses  to  her,  and  thought  that  one      ^""^     ^^'^  dead,  could 


78 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


not  but  prove  affectionate  to  the  living.    She  declined  his  at* 
tentions,  for  her  thoughts  were  irrecoverably  engrossed  by  the 
memory  of  her  former  lover.    He,  however,  persisted  in  his 
suit.    He  solicited  not  her  tenderness,  but  her  esteem.  He 
was  assisted  by  her  conviction  of  his  worth,  and  her  sense  of 
her  own  destitute  and  dependent  situation,  for  she  was  exist-  j| 
ing  on  the  kindness  of  friends.    In  a  word,  he  at  length  sue-  \ 
ceeded  in  gaining  her  hand,  though  with  the  solemn  assurance,  J 
that  her  heart  was  unalterably  another's.  \ 

He  took  her  with  him  to  Sicily,  hoping  that  a  change  of  | 
scene  might  wear  out  the  remembrance  of  early  woes.    She  ! 
was  an  amiable  and  exemplary  wife,  and  made  an  effort  to  be 
a  happy  one  ;  but  nothing  could  cure  the  silent  and  devouring  ; 
melancholy  that  had  entered  into  her  very  soul.    She  wasted 
away  in  a  slow,  but  hopeless  decline,  and  at  length  sunk  into 
the  grave,  the  victim  of  a  broken  heart. 

It  was  on  her  that  Moore,  the  distinguished  Irish  poet, 
composed  the  following  lines  : 

She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps, 

And  lovers  around  her  are  sighing ; 
But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  gaze,  and  weeps, 

For  her  heart  in  his  grave  is  lying. 

She  sings  the  wild  song  of  her  dear  native  plains, 

Every  note  which  he  loved  awaking — 
Ah !  little  they  think,  who  delight  in  her  strains, 

How  the  heart  of  the  minstrel  is  breaking  I 

He  had  lived  for  his  love— for  his  country  he  died, 
They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwined  him — 

Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  be  dried, 
Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  him  ! 

I  Oh  \  make  her  a  grave  where  the  sunbeams  rest, 

j  When  they  promise  a  glorious  morrow  ; 

They*ll  shine  o'er  her  sleep,  like  a  smile  from  the  WCS^ 
j  From  her  own  loved  island  of  sorrow  ! 


SKETCH'-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT, 


THE  ART  OF  BOOK-MAKING. 

"  If  that  severe  doom  of  Synesius  be  true — *  it  is  a  greater  offence  to 
steal  dead  men's  labors  than  their  clothes,' — what  shall  become  of  mosv 
writers  ? " 

Burton's  Anaiamy  of  Melancholy, 

I  HAVE  often  wondered  at  the  extreme  fecundity  of  the 
press,  and  how  it  comes  to  pass  that  so  many  heads,  on  which 
Nature  seems  to  have  inflicted  the  curse  of  barrenness,  yet 
teem  with  voluminous  productions.  As  a  man  travels  on, 
however,  in  the  journey  of  life,  his  objects  of  wonder  daily 
diminish,  and  he  is  continually  finding  out  some  very  simple 
cause  for  some  great  matter  of  marvel.  Thus  have  I  chanced 
in  my  peregrinations  about  this  great  metropolis,  to  blunder 
upon  a  scene  which  unfolded  to  me  some  of  the  mysteries  of 
the  book-making  craft,  and  at  once  put  an  end  to  my  astonish- 
ment. 

I  was  one  summer's  day  loitering  through  the  great  saloons 
of  the  British  Museum,  with  that  listlessness  with  which  one 
is  apt  to  saunter  about  a  room  in  warm  weather ;  sometimes 
lolling  over  the  glass  cases  of  minerals,  sometimes  studying  the 
hieroglyphics  on  an  Egyptian  mummy,  and  sometimes  trying, 
with  nearly  equal  success,  to  comprehend  the  allegorical 
paintings  on  the  lofty  ceilings.  While  I  was  gazing  about  in 
this  idle  way,  my  attention  was  attracted  to  a  distant  floor,  at 
the  end  of  a  suite  of  apartments.  It  was  closed,  but  every 
now  and  then  it  would  open,  and  some  strange-favored  being, 
generally  clothed  in  black,  would  steal  forth,  and  glide  througii 
the  rooms,  without  noticing  any  of  the  surrounding  objects^ 
There  was  an  air  of  mystery  about     sthat  piqued  my  languid 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


curiosity,  and  I  determined  to  attempt  the  passage  of  that 
strait,  and  to  explore  the  unknown  regions  that  lay  beyond. 
The  door  yielded  to  my  hand,  with  all  that  facility  with  which 
the  portals  of  enchanted  castles  yield  to  the  adventurous 
knight-errant.  I  found  myself  in  a  spacious  chamber,  sur- 
rounded with  great  cases  of  venerable  books.  Above  the 
cases,  and  just  under  the  cornice,  were  arranged  a  great  num- 
ber of  black-looking  portraits  of  ancient  authors.  About  the 
room  were  placed  long  tables,  with  stands  for  reading  and 
wnting,  at  which  sat  many  pale,  cadaverous  personages,  por- 
ing intently  over  dusty  volumes,  rummaging  among  mouldy 
manuscripts,'  and  taking  copious  notes  of  their  contents.  The 
most  hushed  stillness  reigned  through  this  mysterious  apart- 
ment, excepting  that  you  might  hear  the  racing  of  pens  over 
sheets  of  paper,  or,  occasionally,  the  deep  sigh  of  one  of  these 
sages,  as  he  shifted  his  position  to  turn  over  the  page  of  an 
old  folio  ;  doubtless  arising  from  that  hoUowness  and  flatu- 
lency incident  to  learned  research. 

Now  and  then  one  of  these  personages  would  write  some- 
thing on  a  small  slip  of  paper,  and  ring  a  bell,  whereupon  a. 
familiar  would  appear,  take  the  paper  in  profound  silence, 
glide  out  of  the  room,  and  return  shortly  loaded  with  ponder- 
ous tomes,  upon  which  the  other  would  fall,  tooth  and  nail, 
with  famished  voracity.  I  had  no  longer  a  doubt  that  J  had 
happened  upon  a  body  of  magi,  deeply  engaged  in  the  study 
of  occult  sciences.  The  scene  reminded  me  of  an  old  Arabian 
tale,  of  a  philosopher,  who  was  shut  up  in  an  enchanted  library, 
in  the  bosom  of  a  mountain,  that  opened  only  once  a  year; 
where  he  made  the  spirits  of  the  place  obey  his  commands, 
and  bring  him  books  of  all  kinds  of  dark  knowledge,  so  that 
at  the  end  of  the  year,  when  the  magic  portal  once  more 
swung  open  on  its  hinges,  he  issued  forth  so  versed  in  for- 
bidden lore,  as  to  be  able  to  soar  above  the  heads  of  the 
multitude,  and  to  control  the  powers  of  Nature. 

My  curiosity  being  ^ow  fully  aroused,  I  whispered  to  one 
of  the  familiars^  03  ho,  T'^  about  to  leave  the  room,  and  begged 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  f^j 

an  interpretation  of  the  strange  scene  before  me.  A  tew 
words  were  sufficient  for  the  purpose  : — I  found  that  these 
mysterious  personages,  whom  I  had  mistaken  for  magi,  were 
principally  authors,  and  were  in  the  very  act  of  manufacturing 
books.  I  was,  in  fact,  in  the  reading-room  of  the  great  British 
Library,  an  immense  collection  of  volumes  of  all  ages  and 
languages,  many  of  which  are  now  forgotten,  and  most  of 
which  are  seldom  read.  To  these  sequestered  pools  of  obso- 
lete literature,  therefore,  do  many  modern  authors  repair,  and 
draw  buckets  full  of  classic  lore,  or  "  pure  English,  undefiled," 
wherewith  to  swell  their  own  scanty  rills  of  thought. 

Being  now  in  possession  of  the  secret,  I  sat  down  in  a 
corner,  and  watched  the  process  of  this  book  manufactory. 
I  noticed  one  lean,  bilious-looking  wight,  who  sought  none 
but  the  most  worm-eaten  volumes,  printed  m  black-letter.  He 
was  evidently  constructing  some  work  of  profound  erudition, 
that  would  be  purchased  by  every  man  who  wished  to  be 
thought  learned,  placed  upon  a  conspicuous  shelf  of  his  library, 
or  laid  open  upon  his  table — but  never  read.  I  observed  him, 
now  and  then,  draw  a  large  fragment  of  biscuit  out  of  his 
pocket,  and  gnaw  ;  whether  it  was  his  dinner,  or  whether  he 
was  endeavoring  to  keep  off  that  exhaustion  of  the  stomach, 
produced  by  much  pondering  over  dry  works,  I  leave  to  harder 
students  than  myself  to  determine. 

There  was  one  dapper  little  gentleman  in  bright  colored 
clothes,  with  a  chirping  gossiping  expression  of  countenance, 
who  had  all  the  appearance  of  an  author  on  good  terms  with 
his  bookseller.  After  considering  him  attentively,  I  recog- 
nized in  him  a  diligent  getter-up  of  miscellaneous  works,  which 
liustled  off  well  with  the  trade.  I  was  curious  to  see  how  he 
manufactured  his  wares.  He  made  more  show  and  stir  of 
business  than  any  of  the  others  ;  dipping  into  various  books, 
fluttering  over  the  leaves  of  manuscripts,  taking  a  morsel  out 
of  one,  a  morsel  out  of  another,  "line  upon  line,  precept  upon 
precept,  here  a  little  and  there  a  little."  The  contents  of  his 
book  seemed  to  be  as  heterogeneous  as  those  of  the  witches* 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


cauldron  in  Macbeth.  It  was  here  a  finger  and  there  a  thumbs 
toe  of  frog  and  blind  worm's  sting,  with  his  own  gossip  poured 
in  like  baboon's  blood,"  to  make  the  medley  "slab  and 
good." 

After  all,  thought  I,  may  not  this  pilfering  disposition  be 
implanted  in  authors  for  wise  purposes  1  may  it  not  be  the  w^ay 
in  which  Providence  has  taken  care  that  the  seeds  of  knowl- 
edge and  wisdom  shall  be  preserved  from  age  to  age,  in  spite 
of  the  inevitable  decay  oi  the  works  in  which  they  were  first 
produced  ?  We  see  that  Nature  has  wisely,  though  whimsi- 
cally provided  for  the  conveyance  of  seeds  from  clime  to  clime, 
in  the  maws  of  certain  birds  ;  so  that  animals,  which,  in  them- 
selves,  are  little  better  than  carrion,  and  apparently  the  law- 
less plunderers  of  the  orchard  and  the  corn-field,  are,  in  fact^ 
Nature's  carriers  to  disperse  and  perpetuate  her  blessings. 
In  like  manner,  the  beauties  and  fine  thoughts  of  ancient  and 
obsolete  writers  are  caught  up  by  these  flights  of  predatory 
authors,  and  cast  forth,  again  to  flourish  and  bear  fruit  in  a 
remote  and  distant  tract  of  time.  Many  of  their  works,  also, 
undergo  a  kind  of  m.etempsychosis,  and  spring  up  under  new 
forms.  What  was  formerly  a  ponderous  history,  revives  ia 
the  shape  of  a  romance — an  old  legend  changes  into  a  modern 
play — and  a  sober  philosophical  treatise  furnishes  tne  body 
for  a  whole  series  of  bouncing  and  sparkling  essays.  Thus  it 
is  in  the  clearing  of  our  American  woodlands  ;  where  we  burn 
down  a  forest  of  stately  pines,  a  progeny  of  dwarf  oaks  start 
up  in  their  place  ;  and  we  never  see  the  prostrate  trunk  of  a 
tree,  mouldering  into  soil,  but  it  gives  birth  to  a  whole  tribe 
of  fungi. 

Let  us  not,  then,  lament  over  the  decay  and  oblivion  inta 
which  ancient  writers  descend  ;  they  do  but  submit  to  the  great 
Jaw  of  Nature,  hich  declares  that  all  sublunary  shapes  ot 
matter  shall  be  limited  in  their  duration,  but  which  decrees, 
also,  that  their  elements  shall  never  perish.  Generation  after 
generation,  both  in  animal  and  vegetafble  life,  passes  away, 
but  the  vital  principle  is  transmitted  to  posterity,  and  the 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  83 

species  continue  to  flourish.  Thus,  also,  do  authors  beget 
authors,  and  having  produced  a  numerous  progeny,  in  a  good 
old  age  they  sleep  with  their  fathers ;  that  is  to  say,  with  the 
authors  who  preceded  them — and  from  whom  they  had  stolen. 

Whilst  I  was  indulging  in  these  rambling  fancies  I  had 
leaned  my  head  against  a  pile  of  reverend  folios.  Whether 
it  was  owing  to  the  soporific  emanations  from  these  works  ; 
or  to  the  profound  quiet  of  the  room  ;  or  to  the  lassitude 
arising  from  much  wandering ;  or  to  an  unlucky  habit  of  nap- 
ping at  improper  times  and  places,  with  which  I  am  grievously 
afiflicted,  so  it  was,  that  I  fell  into  a  doze.  Still,  however,  my 
imagination  continued  busy,  and  indeed  the  same  scene  re- 
mained before  my  mind's  eye,  only  a  little  changed  in  some  of 
the  details.  I  dreamt  that  the  chamber  was  still  decorated 
with  the  portraits  of  ancient  authors,  but  the  number  was  in-- 
creased.  The  long  tables  had  disappeared,  and  in  place  of 
the  sage  magi,  I  beheld  a  ragged,  threadbare  throng,  such  as 
may  be  seen  plying  about  the  great  repository  of  cast-off 
clothes,  Monmouth-street.  Whenever  they  seized  upon  a 
book,  by  one  of  those  incongruities  common  to  dreams,  me~ 
thought  it  turned  into  a  garment  of  foreign  or  antique  fashion, 
with  which  they  proceeded  to  equip  themselves.  I  noticed, 
however,  that  no  one  pretended  to  clothe  himself  from  any 
particular  suit,  but  took  a  sleeve  from  one,  a  cape  from  an- 
other, a  skirt  from  a  third,  thus  decking  himself  out  piecemeal, 
while  some  of  his  original  rags  would  peep  out  from  among 
his  borrowed  finery. 

There  was  a  portly,  rosy,  well-fed  parson,  whom  I  observed 
ogling  several  mouldy  polemical  writers  through  an  eye-glass. 
He  soon  contrived  to  slip  on  the  voluminous  mantle  of  one 
of  the  old  fathers,  and  having  purloined  the  gray  beard  of  an- 
other, endeavored  to  look  exceedingly  wise  ;  but  the  smirk- 
ing commonplace  of  his  countenance  set  at  naught  all  the 
trappings  of  wisJom.  One  sickly-looking  gentleman  was 
busied  embroidering  a  very  flimsy  garment  with  gold  thread 
drawn  out  of  several  old  court-dresses  of  the  reign  of  Queen 


84 


WORKS  OF  WASHING  TON  IRVING, 


Elizabeth.  Another  had  trimmed  himself  magnificently  from 
an  illuminated  manuscript,  had  stuck  a  nosegay  in  his  bosom, 
culled  from  The  Paradise  of  Dainty  Devices,"  and  having 
put  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  hat  on  one  side  of  his  head,  strutted 
off  with  an  exquisite  air  of  vulgar  elegance.  A  third,  who  was 
but  of  puny  dimensions,  had  bolstered  himself  out  bravely 
with  the  spoils  from  several  obscure  tracts  of  philosophy,  so 
that  he  had  a  very  imposing  front,  but  he  was  lamentably 
tattered  in  rear,  and  I  perceived  that  he  had  patched  his  small- 
clothes with  scraps  of  parchment  from  a  Latin  author. 

There  were  some  well-dressed  gentlemen,  it  is  true,  who 
only  helped  themselves  to  a  gem  or  so,  which  sparkled  among 
their  own  ornaments,  without  eclipsing  them.  Some,  too^ 
seemed  to  contemplate  the  costumes  of  the  old  writers,  merely 
to  imbibe  their  principles  of  taste,  and  to  catch  their  air  and 
spirit ;  but  I  grieve  to  say,  that  too  many  were  apt  to  array 
themselves,  from  top  to  toe,  in  the  patch-work  manner  I  have 
mentioned.  I  should  not  omit  to  speak  of  one  genius,  in  drab 
breeches  and  gaiters,  and  an  Arcadian  hat,  who  had  a  violent 
propensity  to  the  pastoral,  but  whose  rural  wanderings  had 
been  confined  to  the  classic  haunts  of  Primrose  Hill,  and  the 
solitudes  of  the  Regent's  Park.  He  had  decked  himself  in 
wreaths  and  ribbons  from  all  the  old  pastoral  poets,  and  hang- 
ing his  head  on  one  side,  went  about  with  a  fantastical,  lack- 
a-daisical  air,  "babbling  about  green  fields."  But  the  per- 
sonage that  most  struck  my  attention,  was  a  pragmatical  old 
gentleman,  in  clerical  robes,  with  a  remarkably  large  and 
square,  but  bald  head.  He  entered  the  room  wheezing  and 
puffing,  elbowed  his  way  thro'Z;  h  the  throng,  with  a  look  of 
sturdy  self-confidence,  and  ha^'*ng  laid  hands  upon  a  thick 
Greek  quarto,  clapped  it  upo'  head,  and  swept  majestically 
away  in  a  formidable  frizzled  w  3. 

In  the  height  of  this  literary  masquerade,  a  cry  suddenly 
resounded  from  every  side,  of  "  thieves  !  thieves  !  "  I  looked, 
and  lo  !  the  portraits  about  the  walls  became  animated  !  The 
old  authors  thrust  out  first  a  head,  then  a  shoulder,  from  the 


SKETCH-BOOK  aF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  85 

canvas,  looked  down  curiously,  for  an  instant,  upon  the  motley 
throng,  and  then  descended,  with  fury  in  their  eyes,  to  claim 
their  rifled  property.  The  scene  of  scampering  and  hubbub 
that  ensued  baffles  all  description.  The  unhappy  culprits  en- 
deavored in  vain  to  escape  with  their  plunder.  On  one  side 
might  be  seen  half-a-dozen  old  monks,  stripping  a  modern  pro- 
fessor ;  on  another,  there  was  sad  devastation  carried  into  the 
ranks  of  modern  dramatic  writers.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
side  by  side,  raged  round  the  field  like  Castor  and  Pollux,  and 
sturdy  Ben  Jonson  enacted  more  wonders  than  when  a  volun- 
teer with  the  army  in  Flanders.  As  to  the  dapper  little  com- 
piler of  farragos,  mentioned  some  time  since,  he  had  arrayed 
himself  in  as  many  patches  and  colors  as  Harlequin,  and 
there  was  as  fierce  a  contention  of  claimants  about  him,  as 
about  the  dead  body  of  Patroclus.  I  was  grieved' to  see  many 
men,  whom  I  had  been  accustomed  to  look  upon  with  awe  and 
reverence,  fain  to  steal  off  with  scarce  a  rag  to  cover  their 
nakedness.  Just  then  my  eye  was  caught  by  the  pragmatical  old 
gentleman  in  the  Greek  grizzled  wig,  who  was  scrambling 
away  in  sore  affright  with  half  a  score  of  authors  in  full  cry 
after  him.  They  were  close  upon  his  haunches  ;  in  a  twink- 
ling off  went  his  wig  ;  at  every  turn  some  strip  of  raiment  was 
peeled  away ;  until  in  a  few  moments,  from  his  domineering 
pomp,  he  shrunk  into  a  little  pursy,  "  chopp'd  bald  shot,"  and 
made  his  exit  with  only  a  few  tags  and  rags  fluttering  at  his 
back. 

There  was  something  so  ludicrous  in  the  catastrophe  of 
this  learned  Theban,  that  I  burst  into  an  immoderate  fit  of 
laughter,  which  broke  the  whole  illusion.  The  tumult  and 
the  scuffle  were  at  an  end.  The  chamber  resumed  its  usual 
appearance.  The  old  authors  shrunk  back  into  their  picture- 
frames,  and  hung  in  shadowy  solemnity  along  the  walls.  In 
short,  I  found  myself  wide  awake  in  my  corner,  with  the  whole 
assemblage  of  bookworms  gazing  at  me  with  astonishment. 
Nothing  of  the  dream  had  been  real  but  my  burst  of  laughter, 
a  sound  never  before  heard  in  that  grave  sanctuary,  and 


86 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 


SO  abhorrent  to  the  ears  of  wisdom,  as  to  electrify  the  fra* 
ternity. 

The  librarian  now  stepped  up  to  me,  and  demanded  wheth- 
er I  had  a  card  of  admission.  At  first  I  did  not  comprehend 
him,  but  I  soon  found  that  the  library  was  a  kind  of  literary 
"  preserve,"  subject  to  game  laws,  and  that  no  one  must  pre- 
sume to  hunt  there  without  special  license  and  permission. 
In  a  word,  I  stood  convicted  of  being  an  arrant  poacher,  and 
was  glad  to  make  a  precipitate  retreat,  lest  I  should  have  a 
whole  pack  of  authors  let  loose  upon  me. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  S| 


A  ROYAL  POET. 

Though  your  body  be  confined 

And  soft  love  a  prisoner  bound, 
Yet  the  beautv  of  your  mind 

Neither  cheek  nor  chain  hath  found. 
Look  ou>"  nobly,  then,  and  dare 
Even  the  fetters  that  you  wear. 

Fletcher, 

<ftf.^  i  soft  sunny  morning  in  the  genial  month  of  May,  I 
i^A^e  an  excursion  to  Windsor  Castle.  It  is  a  place  full  of 
jytoried  and  poetical  associations.  The  very^  external  aspect 
oi'  the  proud  old  pile  is  enough  to  inspire  high  thought.  It 
rears  its  irregular  walls  Ind  massive  towers,  like  a  mural  crown 
aiound  the  brow  of  a  lofty  ridge,  waves  its  royal  banner  ia 
the  clouds,  and  look«  down  with  a  lordly  air  upon  the  sur- 
rounding world. 

On  this  morning,  "lie  weather  was  of  this  voluptuous  ver* 
nal  kind  which  calis  forth  all  the  latent  romance  of  a  man's 
temperament,  filling  his  mind  with  music,  and  disposing  him 
to  quote  poetry  and  dream  of  beauty.  In  wandering  through 
the  niagnificent  saloons  and  long  echoing  galleries  of  the 
castle,  I  passed  with  indifference  by  whole  rows  of  portraits 
of  war^ors  and  statesmen,  but  lingered  in  the  chamber  where 
hang  the  likenesses  of  the  beauties  that  graced  the  gay  court 
of  Charlcf.  the  Second  ;  and  as  I  gazed  upon  them,  depicted 
with  amcfous  half-dishevelled  tresses,  and  the  sleepy  eye  of 
love,  I  blessed  the  pencil  of  Sir  Peter  Lely,  which  had  thus 
€naW^J  m^  to  bask  in  the  reflected  rays  of  beauty.    In  travers- 


^  WORJ^S  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 

ing  also  the  "large  green  courts/'  with  sunshine  beaming  on 
the  gray  walls  and  glancing  along  the  velvet  turf,  my  mind 
was  engrossed  with  the  image  of  the  tender,  the  gallant,  but 
hapless  Surrey,  and  his  account  of  his  loiterings  about  them  in 
his  stripling  days,  when  enamoured  of  the  Lady  Geraldine — 

"  "With  eyes  cast  up  unto  the  maiden's  tower, 
With  easie  sighs,  such  as  men  draw  in  love." 

In  this  mood  of  mere  poetical  susceptibility,  I  visited  the 
ancient  keep  of  the  castle,  where  James  the  First  of  Scotland, 
the  pride  and  theme  of  Scottish  poets  and  historians,  was  for 
many  years  of  his  "youth  detained  a  prisoner  of  state.  It  is  a 
large  gray  tower,that  has  stood  the  brunt  of  ages,  and  is  still 
in  good  preservation.  It  stands  on  a  mound  which  elevates 
it  above  the  other  parts  of  the  castle,  and  a  great  flight  of 
steps  leads  to  the  interior.  In  the  armory,  Which  is  a  Gothic 
hall,  furnished  with  weapons  of  various  kinds  and  ages,  I  was 
^hown  a  coat  of  armor  hanging  against  the  wall,  which  I  was 
told  had  once  belonged  to  James.  From  hence  I  was  con- 
ducted up  a  stair-case  to  a  suite  of  apartments  of  faded  mag- 
nificence, hung  with  storied  tapestry,  which  formed  his  prison, 
and  the  scene  of  that  passionate  and  fanciful  amour,  which 
has  woven  into  the  web  of  his  story  the  magical  hues  of  poetry 
and  fiction. 

The  whole  history  of  this  amiable  but  unfortunate  prince  is 
highly  romantic.  At  the  tender  age  of  eleven,  he  was  sent 
from  his  home  by  his  father,  Robert  III.,  and  destined  for  the 
French  court,  to  be  reared  under  the  eye  of  the  French  mon- 
arch, secure  from  the  treachery  and  danger  that  surrounded 
the  royal  house  of  Scotland.  It  was  his  mishap,  in  the  course 
•of  his  voyage,  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  English,  and  he 
^as  detained  a  prisoner  by  Henry  IV.,  notwithstanding  that 
a  truce  existed  between  the  two  countries. 

The  intelligence  of  his  capture,  coming  in  the  tram  of 
many  sorrows  and  disasters,  proved  fatal  to  his  unhappy  fa- 
then 


SKE7VH-B00K  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT. 

"The  news,"  we  are  told,  "was  brought  to  him  while  at 
supper,  and  did  so  overwhelm  him  with  grief,  that  he  was 
almost  ready  to  give  up  the  ghost  into  the  hands  of  the  ser- 
vants that  attended  him.  But  being  carried  to  his  bed-cham- 
ber, he  abstained  from  all  food,  and  in  three  days  died  of  hun- 
ger and  grief,  at  Rothesay."  * 

James  was  detained  in  captivity  above  eighteen  years  ;  but, 
though  deprived  of  personal  liberty,  he  was  treated  with  the 
respect  due  to  his  rank.  Care  was  taken  to  instruct  him  irt 
all  the  branches  of  useful  knowledge  cultivated  at  that  period,, 
and  to  give  him  those  mental  and  personal  accomplishments 
deemed  proper  for  a  prince.  Perhaps  in  this  respect,  his  im- 
prisonment was  an  advantage,  as  it  enabled  him  to  apply  him- 
self the  more  exclusively  to  his  improvement,, and  quietly  to 
imbibe  that  rich  fund  of  knowledge,  and  to  cherish  those 
elegant  tastes,  which  have  given  such  a  lustre  to  his  memory. 
The  picture  drawn  of  him  in  early  life,  by  the  Scottish  histo- 
rians, is  highly  captivating,  and  seems  rather  the  description 
of  a  hero  of  romance,  than  of  a  character  in  real  history.  He- 
was  well  learnt,  we  are  told,  to  fight  with  the  sword,  to  jousty 
to  tournay,  to  wrestle,  to  sing  and  dance  ;  he  was  an  expert 
mediciner,  right  crafty  in  playing  both  of  lute  and  harp,  and 
sundry  other  instruments  of  music,  and  was  expert  in  grammar, 
oratory,  and  poetry."  f 

With  this  combination  of  manly  and  delicate  accomplish- 
ments, fitting  him  to  shine  both  in  active  and  elegant  life,  and 
calculated  to  give  him  an  intense  relish  for  joyous  existence, 
it  must  have  been  a  severe  trial,  in  an  age  of  bustle  and  chiv- 
alry, to  pass  the  spring-time  of  his  years  in  monotonous  cap- 
tivity. It  was  the  good  fortune  of  James,  however,  to  be 
gifted  with  a  powerful  poetic  fancy,  and  to  be  visited  in  his 
prison  by  the  choicest  inspirations  of  the  muse.  Some  minds 
corrode,  and  grow  inactive,  under  the  loss  of  personal  Lberty  ; 
others  grow  morbid  and  irritable  ;  but  it  is  the  nature  of  ther 


•  Buchanan. 


t  Ballenden*s  translation  of  Hector  Boyce. 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 

poet  to  become  tender  and  imaginative  in  the  loneliness  of 
confinement.  He  banquets  upon  the  honey  of  his  own  thoughts 
and,  like  the  captive  bird,  pours  forth  his  soul  in  melody. 

Have  you  not  seen  the  nightingale 

A  pilgrim  coop'd  into  a  cage, 
How  doth  she  chant  her  wonted  tale, 

In  that  her  lonely  hermitage  ! 

Even  there  her  charming  melody  doth  prove 
That  all  her  boughs  are  trees,  her  cage  a  grove.  * 

Indeed,  it  is  the  divine  attribute  of  the  imagination,  that 
it  is  irrepressible,  unconfinable  ;  that  when  the  real  world  is 
shut  out,  it  can  create  a  world  for  itself,  and,  with  necromantic 
power,  can  conjure  up  glorious  shapes  and  forms,  and  brilliant 
visions,  to  make  solitude  populous,  and  irradiate  the  gloom 
of  the  dungeon.  Such  was  the  world  of  pomp  and  pageant 
that  lived  round  Tasso  in  his  dismal  cell  at  Ferrara,  when  he 
conceived  the  splendid  scenes  of  his  Jerusalem  ;  and  we  may 
conceive  the  "  King's  Quair,'^  f  composed  by  James  during 
his  captivity  at  Windsor,  as  another  of  those  beautiful  break- 
ings forth  of  the  soul  from  the  restraint  and  gloom  of  the 
prison-house. 

The  subject  of  his  poem  is  his  love  for  the  lady  Jane 
Beaufort,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Somerset,  and  a  princess  of 
the  blood-royal  of  England,  of  whom  he  became  enamoured 
in  the  course  of  his  captivity.  What  gives  it  peculiar  value, 
is,  that  it  may  be  considered  a  transcript  of  the  royal  bard's 
true  feelings,  and  the  story  of  his  real  loves  and  fortunes.  It 
is  not  often  that  sovereigns  write  poetry,  or  that  poets  deal  in 
fact.  It  is  gratifying  to  the  pride  of  a  common  man,  to  find 
a  monarch  thus  suing,  as  it  were,  for  admission  into  his  closet, 
and  seeking  to  win  his  favor  by  administering  to  his  pleas- 
ures. It  is  a  proof  of  the  honest  equality  of  intellectual  com- 
petition, which  strips  off  all  the  trappings  of  factitious  dignity, 
brings  the  candidate  down  to  a  level  with  his  fellow-men,  and 

*  Roger  L*Estrange.  t  Quair,  an  old  term  for  book. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  VOAT,  GENT,  51 

obliges  him  to  depend  on  his  own  native  powers  for  distinction. 
It  is  curious,  too,  to  get  at  the  history  of  a  monarch's  hearty 
and  to  find  the  simple  affections  of  human  nature  throbbing 
under  the  ermine.  But  James  had  learnt  to  be  a  poet  be- 
fore he  was  a  king  ;  he  was  schooled  in  adversity,  and  reared 
in  the  company  of  his  own  thoughts.  Monarchs  have  seldom 
time  to  parley  with  their  hearts,  or  to  meditate  their  minds 
into  poetry  ;  and  had  James  been  brought  up  amidst  the  adula- 
tion and  gayety  of  a  court,  we  should  never,  in  all  probability, 
have  had  such  a  poem  as  the  Quair. 

I  have  been  particularly  interested  by  those  parts  of  the- 
poem  which  breathe  his  immediate  thoughts  concerning  his 
situation,  or  which  are  connected  with  the  apartment  in  the 
Tower.  They  have  thus  a  personal  and  local  charm,  and  are 
given  with  such  circumstantial  truth,  as  to  make  the  reader 
present  with  the  captive  in  his  prison,  and  the  companion  of 
his  meditations. 

Such  is  the  account  which  he  gives  of  his  weariness  of 
spirit,  and  of  the  incident  that  first  suggested  the  idea  of  writ- 
ing the  poem.  It  was  the  still  midwatch  of  a  clear  moonlight 
night  j  the  stars,  he  says,  were  twinkling  as  the  fire  in  the 
high  vault  of  heaven,  and  Cynthia  ringing  her  golden  locks 
in  Aquarius  " — he  lay  in  bed  wakeful  and  restless,  and  took  a 
book  to  beguile  the  tedious  hours.  The  book  he  chose  was 
Boetius'  Consolations  of  Philosophy,  a  work  popular  among, 
the  v/riters  of  that  day,  and  which  had  been  translated  by  his 
great  prototype  Chaucer.  From  the  high  eulogium  in  which 
he  indulges,  it  is  evident  this  was  one  of  his  favorite  volumes 
while  in  prison  ;  and  indeed,  it  is  an  admirable  text-book  for 
meditation  under  adversity.  It  is  the  legacy  of  a  noble  and 
enduring  spirit,  purified  by  sorrow  and  suffering,  bequeathing 
to  its  successors  in  calamity  the  maxims  of  sweet  morality, 
and  the  trains  of  eloquent  but  simple  reasoning,  by  which  it  was 
enabled  to  bear  up  against  the  various  ills  of  life.  It  is  a 
talisman  which  the  unfortunate  may  treasure  up  in  his  bosom, 
or,  like  the  good  King  James,  lay  upon  his  nightly  pillow. 


^2  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

After  closing  the  volume,  he  turns  its  contents  over  in  his 
mind,  and  gradually  falls  into  a  fit  of  musing  on  the  fickleness 
of  fortune,  the  vicissitudes  of  his  own  life,  and  the  evils  th'at 
had  overtaken  him  even  in  his  tender  youth.  Suddenly  he 
hears  the  bell  ringing  to  matins,  but  its  sound  chiming  in  with 
his  melancholy  fancies,  seems  to  him  like  a  voice  exhorting 
him  to  write  his  story.  In  the  spirit  of  poetic  errantry,  he  de- 
termines to  comply  with  this  intimation ;  he  therefore  takes 
pen  in  hand,  makes  with  it  a  sign  of  the  cross,  to  implore  a 
benediction,  and  sallies  forth  into  the  fairy  land  of  poetry. 
There  is  something  extremely  fanciful  in  all  this,  and  it  is  in» 
teresting,  as  furnishing  a  striking  and  beautiful  instance  of  the 
simple  manner  in  w^hich  whole  trains  of  poetical  thought  are 
sometimes  awakened,  and  literary  enterprises  suggested  to 
the  mind. 

In  the  course  of  his  poem,  he  more  than  once  bewails  the 
peculiar  hardness  of  his  fate,  thus  doomed  to  lonely  and  inac- 
tive life,  and  shut  up  from  the  freedom  and  pleasure  of  the, 
world,  in  which  the  meanest  animal  indulges  unrestrained. 
There  is  a  sweetness,  however,  in  his  very  complaints ;  they 
are  the  lamentations  of  an  amiable  and  social  spirit,  at  being 
■denied  the  indulgence  of  its  kind  and  generous  propensities  ; 
there  is  nothing  in  them  harsh  or  exaggerated  ;  they  flow  with 
a  natural  and  touching  pathos,  and  are  perhaps  rendered  more 
touching  by  their  simple  brevity.  They  contrast  finely  with 
those  elaborate  and  iterated  repinings  which  we  sometimes 
,  meet  with  in  poetry,  the  effusions  of  morbid  minds,  sickening 
under  miseries  of  their  own  creating,  and  venting  their  bitter, 
ness  upon  an  unoffending  world.  James  speaks  of  his  priva- 
tions with  acute  sensibility ;  but  having  mentioned  them, 
passes  on,  as  if  his  manly  mind  disdained  to  brood  over  un- 
avoidable calamities.  When  such  a  spirit  breaks  forth  into 
Complaint,  however  brief,  we  are  aware  how  great  must  be  the 
suffering  that  extorts  the  murmur.  We  sympathize  with  James^ 
a  romantic,  active,  and  accomplished  prince,  cut  off  in  the 
iustihood  of  youth  from  all  the  enterprise,  the  noble  uses  and 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON  GENT. 


93 


vigorous  delights  of  life,  as  we  do  with  Milton,  alive  to  all  the 
beauties  of  nature  and  glories  of  art,  when  he  breathes  forth 
brief  but  deep-toned  lamentations  over  his  perpetual  blindness. 

Had  not  James  evinced  a  deficiency  of  poetic  artifice,  we 
might  almost  have  suspected  that  these  lowerings  of  gloomy 
reflection  were  meant  as  preparative  to  the  brightest  scene  of 
his  story,  and  to  contrast  with  that  effulgence  of  light  and  love- 
liness, that  exhilarating  accompaniment  of  bird  and  song,  and 
foliage,  and  flower,  and  all  the  revel  of  the  year,  with  which 
he  ushers  in  the  lady  of  his  heart.  It  is  this  scene  in  particu- 
lar which  throws  all  the  magic  of  romance  about  the  old  castle 
keep.  He  had  risen,  he  says,  at  day-break^  according  to  cus- 
tom, to  escape  from  the  dreary  meditations  of  a  sleepless 
pillow.  Bewailing  in  his  chamber  thus  alone,''  despairing  of 
all  joy  and  remedy,  foi,  tired  of  thought,  and  wo-begone," 
he  had  wandered  to  the  window  to  indulge  the  captive's  mis- 
erable solace,  of  gazing  wistfully  upon  the  world  from  which 
he  is  excluded.  The  window  looked  forth  upon  a  smalt 
garden  which  lay  at  the  foot  of  the  tower.  It  was  a  quiet* 
sheltered  spot,  adorned  with  arbors  and  green  alleys,  and  prO' 
tected  from  the  passing  gaze  by  trees  and  hawthorn  hedges. 

Now  was  there  made  fast  by  the  tower's  walk 

A  garden  faire,  and  in  the  corners  set 
An  arbour  green  with  wandis  long  and  small 

Railed  about,  and  so  with  leaves  beset 
Was  all  the  place,  and  hawthorn  hedges  knet 

That  lyf  *  was  none,  walkyng  there  forbye 

That  might  within  scarce  any  wight  espye. 

So  thick  the  branches  and  the  leves  grene^ 

Beshaded  all  the  alleys  that  there  were. 
And  midst  of  every  arbour  might  be  seen, 

The  sharpe,  grene,  swete  juniper, 
Growing  so  faire  with  branches  here  and  there. 

That  as  it  seemed  to  a  lyf  without, 

The  boughs  did  spread  the  arbour  all  about 

*  person. 

Note. — The  language  of  the  quotations  is  generally  modernized. 


94  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

And  on  the  small  green  twistis  *  set 

The  lytel  swete  nyghtingales,  and  suns^ 
So  loud  and  clere,  the  hymnis  consecrate 

Of  lov's  use,  now  soft,  now  loud  among. 
That  all  the  garden  and  the  wallis  rung 
Ryght  of  their  song- 
It  was  the  month  of  May,  when  everything  was  in  bloom, 
and  he  interprets  the  song  of  the  nightingale  into  the  language 
of  his  Enamoured  feeling  : 

Worship  all  ye  that  lovers  be  this  .May ; 

For  of  your  bliss  the  kalends  are  begun, 
And  sing  with  us,  away,  winter,  away. 

Come,  summer,  come,  the  sweet  season  and  sun. 

As  he  gazes  on  the  scene,  and  listens  to  the  notes  of  the 
birds,  he  gradually  lapses  into  on  of  those  tender  and  unde- 
iinable  reveries,  which  fill  the  youthful  bosom  in  this  de- 
licious season.  He  wonders  what  this  love  may  be,  of  which 
he  has  so  often  read,  and  which  thus  seems  breathed  forth 
m  the  quickenmg  breath  of  May,  and  melting  all  nature  into 
/'jcstasy  and  song.  If  it  really  be  so  great  a  felicity,  and  if 
it  be  a  boon  thus  generally  dispensed  to  the  most  insignif- 
icant of  beings,  why  is  he  alone  cut  off  from  its  enjoyments  ? 

Oft  would  I  think,  O  Lord,  what  may  this  be 
That  love  is  of  such  noble  myght  and  kynde  ? 

Loving  his  folk,  and  such  prosperitee, 
Is  it  of  him,  as  we  in  books  do  find  ; 

May  he  oure  hertes  setten  t  and  unbynd : 
Hath  he  upon  oure  hertes  such  majstfrye  ? 

Or  is  all  this  but  feynit  tantasye } 

Per  giff  he  be  of  so  grete  excellence 

That  he  of  every  wight  hath  care  and  charge, 

What  have  I  gilt  \  to  him,  or  done  offence, 
That  I  am  thral'd  and  birdis  go  at  large  } 


*  TwiMs^  small  boughs  or  twigs.  t  SetUn^  incline. 

X  Gilty  what  injury  have  I  done,  &a 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT. 

In  the  midst  of  his  musing,  as  he  casts  his  eyes  downward^ 
fie  beholds  "  the  fairest  and  the  freshest  young  floure  "  that 
ever  he  had  seen.  It  is  the  lovely  Lady  Jane,  walking  in  the 
garden  to  enjoy  the  beauty  of  that  fresh  May  morrowe." 
Breaking  thus  suddenly  upon  his  sight  in  a  moment  of  loneli- 
ness and  excited  susceptibility,  she  at  once  captivates  the 
fancy  of  the  romantic  prince,  and  becomes  the  object  of  his 
wandering  wishes,  the  sovereign  of  his  ideal  world. 

There  is  in  this  charming  scene  an  evident  resemblance  to 
the  early  part  of  Chaucer's  Knight's  Tale,  where  Palamon 
and  Arcite  fall  in  love  with  Emilia,  whom  they  see  walking  in 
the  garden  of  their  prison.  Perhaps  the  similarity  of  the  ac- 
tual fact  to  the  incident  which  he  had  read  in  Chaucer  may 
have  induced  James  to  dwell  on  it  in  his  poem.  His  de- 
-scription  of  the  Lady  Jane  is  given  in  the  picturesque  and  mi- 
nute manner  of  his  master,  and  being,  doubtless,  taken  from 
the  life,  is  a  perfect  portrait  of  a  beauty  of  that  day.  He 
dwells  with  the  fondness  of  a  lover  on  every  article  of  her 
apparel,  from  the  net  of  pearl,  splendent  with  emeralds  and 
sapphires,  that  confined  her  golden  hair,  even  to  the  "goodly 
chaine  of  small  orfeverye  "  *  about  her  neck,  whereby  there 
hung  a  ruby  in  shape  of  a  heart,  that  seemed,  he  says,  like  a 
spark  of  fire  burning  upon  her  white  bosom.  Her  dress  of 
white  tissue  was  looped  up  to  enable  her  to  walk  with  more 
freedom.  She  was  accompanied  by  two  female  attendants, 
and  about  her  sported  a  little  hound  decorated  with  bells, 
probably  the  small  Italian  hound,  of  exquisite  symmetry, 
which  was  a  parlor  favorite  and  pet  among  the  fashionable 
dames  of  ancient  times.  James  closes  his  description  by  & 
burst  of  general  eulogium  : 

In  her  was  youth,  beauty  with  humble  port, 
Bountee,  richesse,  and  wonsanly  feature, 

God  better  knows  than  my  pen  can  report, 
Wisdom,  largesse,  t  estate,  %  and  cunning  §  sure. 

*  Wrought  gold.  t  Largesse,  bounty. 

X  Estate,  dignity.  §  Cunning,  discretioft. 


96 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


In  every  point  so  guided  her  measure. 

In  word,  in  deed,  in  shape,  in  countenance,  ^ 
That  nature  might  no  more  her  child  advance. 

The  departure  of  the  Lady  Jane  from  the  garden  puts  ait 
end  to  this  transient  riot  of  the  heart.  With  her  departs  the 
amorous  illusion  that  had  shed  a  temporary  charm  over  the 
scene  of  his  captivity,  and  he  relapses  into  loneliness,  now 
rendered  tenfold  more  intolerable  by  this  passing  beam  of 
unattainable  beauty.  Through  the  long  and  weary  day  he 
repines  at  his  unhappy  lot,  and  when  evening  approaches  and 
Phoebus,  as  he  beautifully  expresses  it,  had  bad  farewell 
to  every  leaf  and  flower,"  he  still  lingers  at  the  window,  and 
laying  his  head  upon  the  cold  stone,  gives  vent  to  a  mingled 
flow  of  love  and  sorrow,  until  gradually  lulled  by  the  mute 
melancholy  of  the  twilight  hour,  he  lapses,  "  half-sleeping, 
half  swoon,"  into  a  vision,  which  occupies  the  remainder  of  the 
poem,  and  in  which  is  allegorically  shadowed  out  the  history 
of  his  passion. 

When  he  wakes  from  his  trance,  he  rises  from  his  stony 
pillow,  and  pacing  his  apartment  full  of  dreary  reflections, 
questions  his  spirit  whither  it  has  been  wandering ;  whether, 
indeed,  all  that  has  passed  before  his  dreaming  fancy  has 
been  conjured  up  by  preceding  circumstances,  or  whether  it  is 
a  vision  intended  to  comfort  and  assure  him  in  his  despond- 
ency. If  the  latter,  he  prays  that  some  token  may  be  sent  to 
confirm  the  promise  of  happier  days,  given  him  in  his  slum- 
bers. 

Suddenly  a  turtle-dove  of  the  purest  whiteness  comes  fly- 
ing in  at  the  window,  and  alights  upon  his  hand,  bearing  \\\ 
her  bill  a  branch  of  red  gilliflower,  on  the  leaves  of  which  is> 
written  in  letters  of  gold,  the  following  sentence : 

Awake  !  awake  !  T  bring,  lover,  I  bring 
The  newis  glad,  that  blissful  is  and  sure, 

Of  thy  comfort ;  now  laugh,  and  play,  and  sing, 
i^or  in  the  heaven  decretit  is  thy  cure. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT. 

He  receives  the  branch  with  mingled  hope  and  dread ; 
reads  it  with  rapture,  and  this  he  says  was  the  first  token  of 
his  succeeding  happiness.  Whether  this  is  a  mere  poetic  fic- 
tion, or  whether  the  Lady  Jane  did  actually  send  him  a  token 
of  her  favor  in  this  romantic  way,  remains  to  be  determined 
according  to  the  fate  or  fancy  of  the  reader.  He  concludes 
his  poem  by  intimating  that  the  promise  conveyed  in  the  vision 
and  by  the  flower,  is  fulfilled  by  his  being  restored  to  liberty, 
and  made  happy  in  the  possession  of  the  sovereign  of  his 
heart. 

Such  is  the  poetical  account  given  by  James  of  his  love 
adventures  in  Windsor  Castle.  How  much  of  it  is  absolute 
fact,  and  how  much  the  embellishment  of  fancy,  it  is  fruitless 
to  conjecture  ;  do  not,  however,  let  us  always  consider  what- 
ever is  romantic  as  incompatible  with  real  life,  but  let  us 
sometimes  take  a  poet  at  his  word.  I  have  noticed  merely 
such  parts  of  the  poem  as  were  immediately  connected  with 
the  tower,  and  have  passed  over  a  large  part  which  was  in 
the  allegorical  vein,  so  much  cultivated  at  that  day.  The  lan- 
guage of  course  is  quaint  and  antiquated,  so  that  the  beauty 
of  many  of  its  golden  phrases  will  scarcely  be  perceived  at  the 
present  day,  but  it  is  impossible  not  to  be  charmed  with  the 
genuine  sentiment,  the  delightful  artlessness  and  urbanity, 
which  prevail  throughout  it.  The  descriptions  of  Nature,  too, 
-with  which  it  is  embellished,  are  given  with  a  truth,  a  discrim- 
ination, and  a  freshness,  worthy  of  the  most  cultivated  period 
of  the  arts. 

As  an  amatory  poem,  it  is  edifying,  in  these  days  of  coarser 
thinking,  to  notice  the  nature,  refinement,  and  exquisite  deli- 
cacy which  pervade  it,  banishing  every  gross  thought,  or  im- 
modest expression,  and  presenting  female  loveliness  clothed  in 
all  its  chivalrous  attributes  of  almost  supernatural  purity  and 
^!;race. 

James  flourished  nearly  about  the  time  of  Chaucer  and 
Gower,  and  was  evidently  an  admirer  and  studier  of  their 
writings.     Indeed,  in  one  of  his  stanzas  he  acknowledges* 


^8  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

them  as  his  masters,  and  in  some  parts  of  his  poem  we  find 
traces  of  similarity  to  their  productions,  more  especially  to 
those  of  Chaucer.  There  are  always,  however,  general  feat- 
ures of  resemblance  in  the  works  of  contemporary  authors^ 
which  are  not  so  much  borrowed  from  each  other  as  from  the 
times.  Writers,  like  bees,  toil  their  sweets  in  the  wide  world  ; 
they  incorporate  with  their  own  conceptions,  the  anecdotes 
and  thoughts  which  are  current  in  society,  and  thus  each  gen^ 
eration  has  some  features  in  common,  characteristic  of  the 
age  in  which  it  lives.  James  in  fact  belongs  to  one  of  the 
most  brilliant  eras  of  our  literary  history,  and  establishes  the 
claims  of  his  country  to  a  participation  in  its  primitive  honors. 
Whilst  a  small  cluster  of  English  writers  are  constantly  cited 
as  the  fathers  of  our  verse,  the  name  of  their  great  Scottish 
compeer  is  apt  to  be  passed  over  in  silence;  but  he  is  evidently 
worthy  of  being  enrolled  in  that  little  constellation  of  remote^ 
but  never-failing  luminaries,  v/ho  shine  in  the  highest  firma- 
ment of  literature,  and  who,  like  morning  stars,  sang  together 
at  the  bright  dawnirg  of  British  poesy. 

Such  of  my  readers  as  may  not  be  familiar  with  Scottish 
history  (though  the  manner  in  which  it  has  of  late  been  woven 
with  captivating  fiction  has  made  it  a  universal  study),  may 
be  curious  to  learn  something  of  the  subsequent  history  of 
James,  and  the  fortunes  of  his  love.  His  passion  for  the  Lady 
Jane,  as  it  was  the  solace  of  his  captivity,  so  it  facilitated  his 
release,  it  being  imagined  by  the  Court,  that  a  connection  with 
the  blood-royal  of  England  would  attach  him  to  its  own  inter- 
ests. He  was  ultimately  restored  to  his  liberty  and  crown, 
having  previously  espoused  the  Lady  Jane,  who  accompanied 
him  to  Scotland,  and  made  him  a  most  tender  and  devoted 
wife. 

He  found  his  kingdom  in  great  confusion,  the  feudal  chief* 
tains  having  taken  advantage  of  the  troubles  and  irregularities 
of  a  long  interregnum,  to  strengthen  themselves  in  their  pos- 
sessions, and  place  themselves  above  the  power  of  the  laws. 
James  sought  to  found  the  basis  of  his  power  i   Che  affections 


SICETCIT-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  99 

of  his  people.    He  attached  the  lower  orders  to  him  by  the 
reformation  of  abuses,  the  temperate  and  equable  administra- 
tion of  justice,  the  encouragement  of  the  arts  of  peace,  and 
the  promotion  of  everything  that  could  diffuse  comfort,  com- 
petency, and  innocent  enjoyment,  through  the  humblest  ranks 
of  society.    He  mingled  occasionally  among  the  common 
people  in  disguise  ;  visited  their  firesides ;  entered  into  their 
cares,  their  pursuits,  and  their  amusements  ;  informed  himself 
of  the  mechanical  arts,  and  how  they  could  best  be  patronized 
and  improved;  and  was  thus  an  all-pervading  spirit,  watching 
with  a  benevolent  eye  over  the  meanest  of  his  subjects.  Hav- 
ing in  this  generous  manner  made  himself  strong  in  the  hearts 
of  the  common  people,  he  turned  himself  to  curb  the  power  of 
the  factious  nobility ;  to  strip  them  of  those  dangerous  immu- 
nities which  they  had  usurped  ;  to  punish  such  as  had  been 
-guilty  of  flagrant  offences  ;  and  to  bring  the  whole  into  proper 
obedience  to  the  crown.    For  some  time  they  bore  this  with 
outward  submission,  but  with  secret  impatience  and  brooding 
resentment.    A  conspiracy  was  at  length  formed  against  his 
life,  at  the  head  of  which  was  his  own  uncle,  Robert  Stewart, 
Earl  of  Athol,  who,  being  too  old  himself  for  the  perpetration 
of  the  deed  of  blood,  instigated  his  grandson.  Sir  Robert 
Stewart,  together  with  Sir  Robert  Graham,  and  others  of  less 
note,  to-  commit  the  deed.    They  broke  into  his  bedchamber 
at  the  Dominican  convent  near  Perth,  where  he  was  residing, 
and  barbarously  murdered  him  by  oft-repeated  wounds.  His 
faithful  queen,  rushing  to  throw  her  tender  body  between  him 
and  the  sword,  was  twice  wounded  in  the  ineffectual  attempt 
to  shield  him  from  the  assassin  ;  and  it  was  not  until  she  had 
been  forcibly  torn  from  his  person,  that  the  murder  was  ac* 
complished. 

It  was  the  recollection  of  this  romantic  tale  of  former 
times,  and  of  the  golden  little  poem,  which  had  its  birth-place 
in  this  tower,  that  made  me  visit  the  old  pile  with  more  than 
common  interest.  Tbe  suit  of  armor  hanging  up  in  the  hall, 
richly  gilt  and  embellished,  as  if  to  figure  in  the  tournay. 


300 


IVORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


brought  the  image  of  the  gallant  and  romantic  prince  vividly- 
before  my  imagination.  I  paced  the  deserted  chambers  where 
he  had  composed  his  poem ;  I  leaned  upon  the  window,  and 
endeavored  to  persuade  myself  it  was  the  very  one  where  he 
had  been  visited  by  his  vision  ;  I  looked  out  upon  the  spot 
where  he  had  first  seen  the  Lady  Jane.  It  was  the  same 
genial  and  joyous  month  :  the  birds  were  again  vying  with  each 
other  in  strains  of  liquid  melody  :  everything  was  bursting  into 
vegetation,  and  budding  forth  the  tender  promise  of  the  year. 
Time,  which  delights  to  obliterate  the  sterner  memorials  of 
human  pride,  seems  to  have  passed  lightly  over  this  little  scene 
of  poetry  and  love,  and  to  have  withheld  his  desolating  hand. 
Several  centuries  have  gone  by,  yet  the  garden  still  flourishes^ 
at  the  foot  of  the  tower.  It  occupies  what  was  once  the  moat 
of  the  keep,  and  though  some  parts  have  been  separated  by 
dividing  walls,  yet  others  have  still  their  arbors  and  shaded 
walks,  as  in  the  days  of  James  ;  and  the  whole  is  sheltered, 
blooming,  and  retired.  There  is  a  charm  about  the  spot  that 
has  been  printed  by  the  footsteps  of  departed  beauty,  and  con- 
secrated  by  the  inspirations  of  the  poet,  which  is  heightened, 
rather  than  impaired,  by  the  lapse  of  ages.  It  is,  indeed,  the 
gift  of  poetry,  to  hallow  every  place  in  which  it  moves ;  to 
breathe  round  nature  an  odor  more  exquisite  than  the  per- 
fume of  the  rose,  and  to  shed  over  it  a  tint  more  magical  thaa 
the  blush  of  morning. 

Others  may  dwell  on  the  illustrious  deeds  of  James  as  a 
warrior  and  a  legislator  ;  but  I  have  delighted  to  view  him 
merely  as  the  companion  of  his  fellow-men,  the  benefactor  of 
the  human  heart,  stooping  from  his  high  estate  to  sow  the 
sweet  flowers  of  poetry  and  song  in  the  paths  of  common  life. 
He  was  the  first  to  cultivate  the  vigorous  and  hardy  plant  of 
Scottish  genius,  which  has  since  been  so  prolific  of  the  most 
wholesome  and  highly  flavored  fruit.  He  carried  with  him 
mto  the  sterner  regions  of  the  north,  all  the  fertilizing  arts  of 
southern  refinement.  He  did  everything  in  his  power  to  win 
his  countrymen  to  the  gay,  the  elegant,  and  gentle  arts  which 


SKETCir-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON.  GENT,    to  f 

soften  and  refine  the  character  of  a  people,  and  wreathe  a 
grace  roun^  the  loftiness  of  a  proud  and  warlike  spirit.  He 
wrote  many  poems,  which,  unfortunately  for  the  fulness  of 
his  fame,  are  now  lost  to  the  world  ;  one,  which  is  still  pre- 
served, called  "Christ's  Kirk  of  the  Green,''  shows  how  dil- 
igently he  had  made  himself  acquainted  with  the  rustic  sports 
and  pastimes,  which  constitute  such  a  source  of  kind  and 
social  feeling  among  the  Scottish  peasantry  ;  and  with  what 
simple  and  happy  humor  he  could  enter  into  their  enjoyments. 
He  contributed  greatly  to  improve  the  national  music  ;  and 
traces  of  his  tender  sentiment  and  elegant  taste  are  said  to 
exist  in  those  witching  airs,  still  piped  among  the  wild  moun- 
tains and  lonely  glens  of  Scotland.  He  has  thus  connected 
his  image  with  whatever  is  most  gracious  and  endearing  in  the 
national  character;  he  has  embalmed  his  memory  in  song,  and 
lioated  his  name  down  to  after-ages  in  the  rich  stream  of 
Scottish  melody.  The  recollection  of  these  things  was  kind- 
ling at  my  heart,  as  I  paced  the  silent  scene  of  his  imprison- 
ment. I  have  visited  Vaucluse  with  as  much  enthusiasm  as 
a  pilgrim  would  visit  the  shrine  at  Loretto  ;  but  I  have  never 
felt  more  poetical  devotion  than  when  contemplating  the  old 
tower  and  the  little  garden  at  Windsor,  and  musing  over  the 
romantic  loves  of  the  Lady  Jane,  and  the  Royal  Poet  of  Scot- 
land. 


102 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVJNiJ^ 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH. 

A  gentleman ! 
What  o'  the  wool  pack  ?  or  the  sugar-chest  ? 
Or  lists  of  velvet  ?  which  is't,  pound,  or  yard, 
You  vend  your  gentry  by  ? 

Beggar's  Bush. 

There  are  few  places  more  favorable  to  the  study  of 
character,  than  an  English  country  church.  1  was  once  pass- 
ing a  few  weeks  at  the  seat  of  a  friend,  who  resided  in  the 
vicinity  of  one,  the  appearance  of  which  particularly  struck  my 
fancy.  It  was  one  of  those  rich  morsels  of  quaint  antiquity^ 
which  gives  such  a  peculiar  charm  to  English  landscape.  It 
stood  in  the  midst  of  a  country  filled  with  ancient  families,  and 
contained,  within  its  cold  and  silent  aisles,  the  congregated 
dust  of  many  noble  generations.  The  interior  walls  were  en- 
crusted with  monuments  of  every  age  and  style.  The  light 
streamed  through  windows  dimmed  with  armorial  bearings, 
richly  emblazoned  in  stained  glass.  In  various  parts  of  the 
church  were  tombs  of  knights,  and  high-born  dames,  of  gor- 
geous workmanship,  with  their  effigies  in  colored  marble.  On 
every  side,  the  eye  was  struck  with  some  instance  of  aspiring 
mortality ;  some  haughty  memorial  which  human  pride  had 
erected  over  its  kindred  dust,  in  this  temple  of  the  most  hum- 
ble of  all  religions. 

The  congregation  was  composed  of  the  neighboring  people 
of  rank,  who  sat  in  pews  sumptuously  lined  and  cushioned, 
furnished  with  richly-gilded  prayer-books,  and  decorated  with 
their  arms  upon  the  pew  doors  ;  of  the  villagers  and  peasantry. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  105 


who  filled  the  back  seats,  and  a  small  gallery  beside  the  organ  ; 
and  of  the  poor  of  the  parish,  who  were  ranged  on  benches 
in  the  aisles. 

The  service  was  performed  by  a  snuffling,  well-fed  vicar,, 
who  had  a  snug  dwelling  near  the  church.  He  was  a  privi- 
leged guest  at  all  the  tables  of  the  neighborhood,  and  had  been 
the  keenest  fox-hunter  in  the  country,  until  age  and  good  liv- 
ing had  disabled  him  from  doing  anything  more  than  ride  to 
see  the  hounds  throw  off,  and  make  one  at  the  hunting  dinner. 

Under  the  ministry  of  such  a  pastor,  I  found  it  impossible 
to  get  into  the  train  of  thought  suitable  to  the  time  and  place ; 
so  having,  like  many  other  feeble  Christians,  compromised 
with  my  conscience,  by  laying  the  sin  of  my  own  delinquency 
at  another  person's  threshold,  I  occupied  myself  by  making 
observations  on  my  neighbors. 

I  was  as  yet  a  stranger  in  England,  and  curious  to  notice 
the  manners  of  its  fashionable  classes.  I  found,  as  usual,  that 
there  was  the  least  pretension  where  there  was  the  most  ac- 
knowledged title  to  respect.  I  was  particularly  struck,  for 
instance,  with  the  family  of  a  nobleman  of  high  rank,  consist- 
ing of  several  sons  and  daughters.  Nothing  could  be  more 
simple  and  unassuming  than  their  appearance.  They  gener- 
ally came  to  church  in  the  plainest  equipage  and  often  on  foot. 
The  young  ladies  would  stop  and  converse  in  the  kindest 
manner  with  the  peasantry,  caress  the  children,  and  listen  to 
the  stories  of  the  humble  cottagers.  Their  countenances  were 
open  and  beautifully  fair,  with  an  expression  of  high  refine- 
ment, but  at  the  same  time,  a  frank  cheerfulness,  and  engag- 
ing affability.  Their  brothers  were  tall,  and  elegantly  formed. 
They  were  dressed  fashionably,  but  simply  ;  with  strict  neat- 
ness and  propriety,  but  without  any  mannerism  or  foppishness. 
Their  whole  demeanor  was  easy  and  natural,  with  that  lofty 
grace,  and  noble  frankness,  which  bespeak  free-born  souls 
that  have  never  been  checked  in  their  growth  by  feelings  of 
inferiority.  There  is  a  healthful  hardiness  about  real  dignity, 
that  never  dreads  contact  and  communion  with  others,  how- 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


€ver  humole.  It  is  only  spurious  pride  that  is  morbid  and  sen- 
sitive, and  shrinks  from  every  touch.  I  v^as  pleased  to  see  the 
manner  in  which  they  would  converse  with  the  peasantry  about 
those  rural  concerns  and  field  sports,  in  which  the  gentlemen 
of  the  country  so  much  delight.  In  these  conversations,  there 
was  neither  haughtiness  on  the  one  part,  nor  servility  on  the 
other ;  and  you  were  only  reminded  of  the  difference  of  rank 
by  the  habitual  respect  of  the  peasant. 

In  contrast  to  these,  was  the  family  of  a  wealthy  citizen, 
who  had  amassed  a  vast  fortune,  and  having  purchased  the  es- 
tate and  mansion  of  a  ruined  nobleman  in  the  neighborhood, 
was  endeavoring  to  assume  all  the  style  and  dignity  of  a  he- 
reditary lord  of  the  soil.  "The  family  always  came  to  church 
m  prince.  They  were  rolled  majestically  along  in  a  carriage 
emblazoned  with  arms.  The  crest  glittered  in  silver  radiance 
from  every  part  of  the  harness  where  a  crest  could  possibly  be 
placed.  A  fat  coachman  in  a  three-cornered  hat,  richly  laced, 
and  a  flaxen  wig,  curling  close  round  his  rosy  face,  was  seated 
on  the  box,  with  a  sleek  Danish  dog  beside  him.  Two  foot- 
men in  gorgeous  liveries,  with  huge  bouquets,  and  gold-headed 
canes,  lolled  behind.  The  carriage  rose  and  sunk  on  its  long 
springs  with  a  peculiar  stateliness  of  motion.  The  very  horses 
champed  their  bits,  arcned  their  necks,  and  glanced  their  eyes 
more  proudly  than  common  hsrses  ;  either  because  they  had 
got  a  little  of  the  family  feeling,  or  were  reined  up  more  tightly 
than  ordinary. 

I  could  not  but  admire  the  style  with  which  this  splendid 
pageant  was  brought  up  to  the  gate  of  the  churchyard.  There 
was  a  vast  effect  produced  at  the  turning  of  an  angle  of  the 
wall ;  a  great  smacking  of  the  whip  ;  straining  and  scrambling 
of  the  horses  ;  glistening  of  harness,  and  flashing  of  wheels 
through  gravel.  This  was  the  moment  of  triumph  and  vain- 
glory to  the  coachman.  1'he  horses  were  urged  and  checked, 
until  they  were  fretted  into  a  foam.  They  threw  out  their  feet 
in  a  prancing  trot,  dashing  about  pebbles  at  every  step.  The 
crowd  of  villagers  sauntering  quietly  to  church,  opened  pre^ 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  105 

dpitately  to  the  right  and  left,  gaping  in  vacant  admiration. 
On  reaching  the  gate,  the  horses  were  pulled  up  with  a  sud- 
denness that  produced  an  immediate  stop,  and  almost  threw 
them  on  their  haunches. 

There  was  an  extraordinary  hurry  of  the  footmen  to  alight, 
open  the  door,  pull  down  the  steps,  and  prepare  everything 
for  the  descent  on  earth  of  this  august  family.  The  old  citi- 
zen first  emerged  his  round  red  face  from  out  the  door,  look- 
ing about  him  with  the  pompous  air  of  a  man  accustomed  to 
rule  on  'change,  and  shake  the  stock-market  with  a  nod.  His 
consort,  a  fine,  fleshy,  comfortable  dame,  followed  him.  There 
seemed,  I  must  confess,  but  little  f)ride  in  her  composition. 
She  was  the  picture  Oi  broad,  honest,  vulgar  enjoyment.  The 
world  went  well  with  her  ;  and  she  liked  the  world.  She  had 
fine  clothes,  a  fine  house,  a  fine  carriage,  fine  children,  every- 
thing was  fine  about  her :  it  was  nothing  but  driving  about 
and  visiting  and  feasting.  Life  was  to  her  a  perpetual  revel ; 
it  was  one  long  Lord  Mayor's  day. 

Two  daughters  succeeded  to  this  goodly  couple.  They 
certainly  were  handsome  ;  but  had  a  supercilious  air  that 
chilled  admiration,  and  disposed  the  spectator  to  be  critical. 
They  were  ultra-fashionables  in  dress,  and,  though  no  one 
could  deny  the  richness  of  their  decorations,  yet  their  appro- 
priateness might  be  questioned  amidst  the  simplicity  of  a 
country  church.  They  descended  loftily  from  the  carriage, 
and  moved  up  the  line  of  peasantry  with  a  step  that  seemed 
dainty  of  the  soil  it  trod  on.  They  cast  an  excursive  glance 
around,  that  passed  coldly  over  the  burly  faces  of  the  peas- 
antry, until  they  met  the  eyes  of  the  nobleman's  family,  when 
their  countenances  immediately  brightened  into  smiles,  and 
they  made  the  most  profound  and  elegant  curtseys,  which 
were  returned  in  a  manner  that  showed  they  were  but  slight 
acquaintances. 

I  must  not  forget  the  two  sons  of  this  aspiring  citizen,  who- 
came  to  church  in  a  dashing  curricle,  with  outriders.  The}^ 
were  arrayed  in  the  extremit"  of  the  mode,  with  all  that  ped* 


^o6  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVmG. 

-antry  of  dress  which  marks  the  man  of  questionable  preten- 
sions to  style.  They  kept  entirely  by  themselves,  eyeing  every 
one  askance  that  came  near  them,  as  if  measuring  his  claims 
to  respectability  ;  yet  they  were  without  conversation,  except 
the  exchange  of  an  occasional  phrase.  They  even  moved  ar- 
tificially, for  their  bodies,  in  compliance  with  the  caprice  of 
the  day,  had  been  disciplined  into  the  absence  of  all  ease  and 
freedom.  Art  had  done  everything  to  accomplish  them  as 
men  of  fashion,  but  nature  had  denied  them  the  nameless 
grace.  They  were  vulgarly  shaped,  like  men  formed  for  the 
common  purposes  of  life,  and  had  that  air  of  supercilious  as- 
sumption which  is  never  seen  in  the  true  gentleman. 

I  have  been  rather  minute  in  drawing  the  pictures  of  these 
two  families,  because  I  considered  them  specimens  of  what 
is  often  to  be  met  with  in  this  country — the  unpretending  great, 
and  the  arrogant  little.  I  have  no  respect  for  titled  rank, 
unless  it  be  accompanied  by  true  nobility  of  soul ;  but  I  have 
remarked,  in  all  countries  where  these  artificial  distinctions 
exist,  that  the  very  highest  classes  are  always  the  most  cour- 
teous and  unassuming.  Those  who  are  well  assured  of  their 
own  standing,  are  least  apt  to  trespass  on  that  of  others  : 
whereas,  nothing  is  so  offensives  as  the  aspirings  of  vulgarity, 
which  thinks  to  elevate  itself  by  humiliating  its  neighbor. 

As  I  have  brought  these  families  into  contrast,  I  must 
notice  their  behavior  in  church.  That  of  the  nobleman's 
family  was  quiet,  serious,  and  attentive.  Not  that  they  ap- 
peared to  have  any  fervor  of  devotion,  but  rather  a  respect  for 
sacred  things,  and  sacred  places,  inseparable  from  good-breed- 
ing. The  others,  on  the  contrary,  were  in  a  perpetual  fxUtter 
and  whisper  ;  they  betrayed  a  continual  consciousness  of  finery, 
and  the  sorry  ambition  of  being  the  wonders  of  a  rural  congre- 
gation. 

The  old  gentleman  was  the  only  one  really  attentive  to  the 
service.  He  took  the  whole  burden  of  family  devotion  upon 
himself  ;  standing  bolt  upright,  and  uttering  the  responses  with 
a  loud  voice  that  might  be  heard  all  over  the  church.    It  waa 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  107 

evident  that  he  was  one  of  these  thorough  church  and  king  men^ 
who  connect  the  idea  of  devotion  and  loyalty  ;  who  consider 
the  Deity,  somehow  or  other,  of  the  government  party,  and 
religion  a  very  excellent  sort  of  thing,  that  ought  to  be  con- 
tenanced  and  kept  up." 

When  he  joined  so  loudly  in  the  service,  it  seemed  more 
by  way  of  example  to  the  lower  orders,  to  show  them,  that 
though  so  great  and  wealthy,  he  was  not  above  being  religious  ; 
as  I  have  seen  a  turtle-fed  alderman  swallow  publicly  a  basin 
of  charity  soup,  smacking  his  lips  at  every  mouthful,  and  pro- 
nouncing it  "excellent  food  for  the  poor." 

When  the  service  was  at  an  end,  I  was  curious  to  witness 
the  several  exits  of  my  groups.  The  young  noblemen  and 
their  sisters,  as  the  day  was  fine,  preferred  strolling  home 
across  the  fields,  chatting  with  the  country  people  as  they 
went.  The  others  departed  as  they  came,  in  grand  parade. 
Again  were  the  equipages  wheeled  up  to  the  gate.  There  was 
again  the  smacking  of  whips,  the  clattering  of  hoofs,  and  the 
glittering  of  harness.  The  horses  started  off  almost  at  a 
bound ;  the  villagers  again  hurried  to  right  and  left ;  the 
wheels  threw  up  a  cloud  of  dust,  and  the  aspiring  family  was 
wrapt  out  of  sight  in  a  whirlwind* 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON. 

Pittie  olde  age,  within  whose  silver  haires 
Honour  and  reverence  evermore  have  raign'd. 

Marlowe's  Tamburlaine. 

During  my  residence  in  the  country,  I  used  frequently  to 
attend  at  the  old  village  church.  Its  shadowy  aisles,  its 
tnouldering  monuments,  its  dark  oaken  panelling,  all  reverend 
with  the  gloom  of  departed  years,  seemed  to  fit  it  for  the  haunt 
of  solemn  meditation.  A  Sunday,  too,  in  the  country,  is  so  holy 
in  its  repose — such  a  piensive  quiet  reigns  over  the  face  of 
Nature,  that  every  restless  passion  is  charmed  down,  and  we 
feel  all  the  natural  religion  of  the  soul  gently  springing  up 
within  us. 

"  Sweet  day,  so  pure,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky !  " 

I  cannot  lay  claim  to  the  merit  of  being  a  devout  man  ;  but 
there  are  feelings  that  visit  me  in  a  country  church,  amid  the 
beautiful  serenity  of  Nature,  which  I  experience  nowhere  else  ; 
and  if  not  a  more  religious,  think  I  am  a  better  man  on 
Sunday,  than  on  any  other  day  of  the  seven. 

But  in  this  church  I  felt  myself  continually  thrown  back 
upon  the  world,  by  the  frigidity  and  pomp  of  the  poor  worms 
around  me.  The  only  being  that  seemed  thoroughly  to  feel 
the  humble  and  prostrate  piety  of  a  true  Christian,  was  a  poor 
decrepit  old  woman,  bending  under  the  weight  of  years  and 
infirmities.  She  bore  the  traces  of  something  better  than 
abject  poverty.    The  fingerings  of  decent  pride  were  visible 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT,  109 

in  her  appearance.  Her  dress,  though  humble  in  the  extreme^ 
was  scrupulously  clean.  Some  trivial  respect,  too,  had  been 
awarded  her,  for  she  did  not  take  her  seat  among  the  village 
poor,  but  sat  alone  on  the  steps  of  the  altar.  She  seemed  ta 
have  survived  all  love,  all  friendship,  all  society  ;  and  to  have 
nothing  left  her  but  the  hopes  of  heaven.  When  I  saw  her 
feebly  rising  and  bending  her  aged  form  in  prayer  ;  habitually 
conning  her  prayer-book,  which  her  palsied  hand  and  failing 
eyes  could  not  permit  her  to  read,  but  which  she  evidently^ 
knew  by  heart ;  I  felt  persuaded  that  the-faltering  voice  of 
that  poor  woman  arose  to  heaven  far  before  the  responses  of 
the  clerk,  the  swell  of  the  organ,  or  the  chanting  of  the  choir.. 

I  am  fond  of  loitering  about  country  churches ;  and  this 
was  so  delightfully  situated,  that  it  frequently  attracted  me. 
It  stood  on  a  knoll,  round  which  a  small  stream  made  a  beauti- 
ful bend,  and  then  wound  its  way  through  a  long  reach  of  soft 
meadow  scenery.  The  church  was  surrounded  by  yew  trees, 
which  seemed  almost  coeval  with  itself.  Its  tall  Gothic  spire 
shot  up  lightly  from  among  them,  with  rooks  and  crows  gen- 
erally wheeling  about  it.  I  v/as  seated  there  one  still  sunny 
morning,  watching  two  laborers  who  were  digging  a  grave. 
They  had  chosen  one  of  the  most  remote  and  neglected  cor- 
ners of  the  churchyard,  where,  by  the  number  of  nameless 
graves  around,  it  would  appear  that  the  indigent  and  friend- 
less were  huddled  into  the  earth.  I  was  told  that  the  new- 
made  grave  was  for  the  only  son  of  a  poor  widow.  While  I 
was  meditating  on  the  distinctions  of  worldly  rank,  which  ex- 
tend thus  down  into  the  very  dust,  the  toll  of  the  bell  announced 
the  approach  of  the  funeral.  They  were  the  obsequies  of 
poverty,  with  which  pride  had  nothing  to  do.  A  coffin  of  the 
plainest  materials,  without  pall  or  other  covering,  was  borne 
by  some  of  the  villagers.  The  sexton  walked  before  with  an 
air  of  cold  indifference.  There  were  no  mock  mourners  in  the 
trappings  of  affected  woe,  but  there  was  one  real  mourner  who 
feebly  tottered  after  the  corpse.  It  was  the  aged  mother  of 
the  deceased— the  poor  old  woman  whom  I  had  seen  seated 


WORKS  OF  WASHTNGTOlSr  IRVING. 


on  the  steps  of  the  altar.  She  was  supported  by  an  humble 
friend,  who  was  endeavoring  to  comfort  her.  A  few  of  the 
neighboring  poor  had  joined  the  train,  and  some  children  of 
the  village  were  running  hand  in  hand,  now  shouting  with  un- 
thinking mirth,  and  now  pausing  to  gaze,  with  childish 
curiosity,  on  the  grief  of  the  mourner. 

As  the  funeral  train  approached  the  grave,  the  parson 
issued  from  the  church  porch,  arrayed  in  the  surplice,  with 
prayer-book  in  hand,  and  attended  by  the  clerk.  The  service, 
however,  was  a  mere  act  of  charity.  The  deceased  had  been 
^destitute,  and  the  survivor  was  penniless.  It  was  shuffled 
through,  therefore,  in  form,  but  coldly  and  unfeelingly.  The 
well-fed  priest  moved  but  a  few  steps  from  the  church  door ; 
his  voice  could  scarcely  be  heard  at  the  grave ;  and  never 
did  I  hear  the  funeral  service,  that  sublime  and  touching 
ceremony,  turned  into  such  a  frigid  mummery  of  words. 

I  approached  the  grave.  The  coffin  was  placed  on  the 
ground.  On  it  were  inscribed  the  name  and  age  of  the 
deceased — "George  Somers,  aged  26  years."  The  poor 
mother  had  been  assisted  to-^kneel  down  at  the  head  of  it. 
Her  withered  hands  were  clasped,  as  if  in  prayer  ;  but  I  could 
perceive,  by  a  feeble  rocking  of  the  body,  and  a  convulsive 
motion  of  the  lips,  that  she  was  gazing  on  the  last  relics  of  her 
son  with  the  yearnings  of  a  mother's  heart. 

Preparations  were  made  to  deposit  the  coffin  in  the  earth. 
There  was  that  bustling  stir,  which  breaks  so  harshly  on  the 
feelings  of  grief  and  affection  :  directions  given  in  the  cold 
tones  of  business  ;  the  striking  of  spades  into  sand  and  gravel ; 
which,  at  the  grave  of  those  we  love,  is  of  all  sounds  the  most 
withering.  The  bustle  around  seemed  to  waken  the  mother 
from  a  wretched  reverie.  She  raised  her  glazed  eyes,  and 
looked  about  with  a  faint  wildness.  As  the  men  approached 
A'ith  cords  to  lower  the  coffin  into  the  grave,  she  wrung  her 
hands,  and  broke  into  an  agony  of  grief.  The  poor  woman 
who  attended  her,  took  her  by  the  arm,  endeavoring  to  raise 
•her  from  the  earth,  and  to  whisper  something  like  consoia* 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENF    1 1 1 


tion — "  Nay.  now — nay,  now — don't  take  it  so  sorely  to  heart.'^ 
She  could  only  shake  her  head,  and  wring  her  hands,  as  one 
not  to  be  comforted. 

As  they  lowered  the  body  into  the  earth,  the  creaking  of 
the  cords  seemed  to  agonize  her ;  but  when,  on  some 
accidental  obstruction,  there  was  a  jostling  of  the  coffin,  all 
the  tenderness  of  the  mother  burst  forth  ;  as  if  any  harm  could 
come  to  him  who  was  far  beyond  the  reach  of  worldly  suf- 
fering. 

I  could  see  no  more — my  heart  swelled  into  my  throat — 
my  eyes  filled  with  tears — I  felt  as  if  I  were  acting  a  barbar- 
ous part  in  standing  by  and  gazing  idly  on  this  scene  of 
maternal  anguish.  I  wandered  to  another  part  of  the  church- 
yard, where  I  remained  until  the  funeral  train  had  dispersed. 

When  I  saw  the  mother  slowly  and  painfully  quitting  the 
•grave,  leaving  behind  her  the  remains  of  all  that  was  dear  to 
her  on  earth,  and  returning  to  silence  and  destitution,  my 
heart  ached  for  her.  What,  thought  I,  are  the  distresses  of 
the  rich  ?  They  have  friends  to  soothe — pleasures  to  beguile — 
a  world  to  divert  and  dissipate  their  griefs.  What  are  the 
sorrows  of  the  young  ?  Their  growing  minds  soon  close  above 
the  wound — their  elastic  spirits  soon  rise  beneath  the  pressure 
' — their  green  and  ductile  affections  soon  twine  around  new 
objects.  But  the  sorrows  of  the  poor,  who  have  no  outward 
appliances  to  soothe — the  sorrows  of  the  aged,  with  whom  life 
at  best  is  but  a  wintry  day,  and  who  can  look  for  no  after- 
growth of  joy — the  sorrows  of  a  widow,  aged,  solitary,  destitute, 
mourning  over  an  only  son,  the  last  solace  of  her  years  ; — 
these  are  indeed  sorrows  which  make  us  feel  the  impoten^y 
of  consolation. 

It  was  some  time  before  I  left  the  churchyard.  On  my 
way  homeward,  I  met  with  the  woman  who  had  acted  as  com- 
forter :  she  was  just  returning  from  accompanying  her  mother 
to  her  lonely  habitation,  and  I  drew  from  her  some  particulars 
connected  with  the  affecting  scene  I  had  witnessed. 

The  parents  of  the  deceased  had  resided  in  the  village 


112 


WORKS  OF  iVASH/NG'JOA  IRVING. 


from  childhood.  They  had  inhabiud  one  of  the  neatest  cot- 
tages, and  by  various  rural  occupations,  and  the  assistance  of  a 
small  garden,  had  supported  themselves  creditably,  and  com- 
fortably, and  led  a  happy  and  a  blameless  life.  They  had  one 
son,  whohad  grown  up  to  be  the  staff  and  pride  of  their  age — 
Oh,  sir  !  "  said  the  good  woman,  "  he  was  such  a  comely  lad, 
so  sweet-tempered,  so  kind  to  everyone  around  him,  so  duti- 
ful to  his  parents  I  It  did  one^s  heart  good  to  see  him  of  a 
Sunday,  drest  out  in  his  best,  so  tall,  so  straight,  so  cheery,  sup- 
porting his  old  mother  to  church — for  she  was  always  fonder 
of  leaning  on  George's  arm,  than  on  her  good  man's  ;  and, 
poor  soul,  she  might  well  be  proud  of  him,  for  a  finer  lad  there 
was  not  in  the  country  round." 

Unfortunately,  the  son  was  tempted,  during  a  year  of 
scarcity  and  agricultural  hardship,  to  enter  into  the  service  of 
one  of  the  small  craft  that  plied  on  a  neighboring  river.  He 
had  not  been  long  in  this  employ,  when  he  was  entrapped  by  a. 
press-gang,  and  carried  off  to  sea.  His  parents  received  tid- 
ings of  his  seizure,  but  beyond  that  they  could  learn  nothing. 
Is  was  the  loss  of  their  main  prop.  The  father,  who  was  al- 
ready infirm,  grew  heartless  and  melancholy,  and  sunk  inta 
his  grave.  The  widow,  left  lonely  in  her  age  and  feebleness,, 
could  no  longer  support  herself,  and  came  upon  the  parish. 
Still  there  was  a  kind  of  feeling  towards  her  throughout  the 
village,  and  a  certain  respect  as  being  one  of  the  oldest  inhabi- 
tants. As  no  one  applied  for  the  cottage  in  which  she  had 
passed  so  many  happy  days,  she  was  permitted  to  remain  in 
it,  where  she  lived  solitary  and  almost  helpless.  The  few 
wants  of  nature  were  chiefly  supplied  from  the  scanty  produc- 
tions of  her  little  garden,  which  the  neighbors  would  now  and 
then  cultivate  for  her.  It  was  but  a  few  days  before  the  time 
at  which  these  circumstances  were  told  me,  that  she  was 
gathering  some  vegetables  for  her  repast,  when  she  heard  the 
cottage-door  which  faced  the  garden  suddenly  opened.  A 
stranger  came  out,  and  seemed  to  be  looking  eagerly  and  wildly 
around.    He  was  dressed  in  seamen's  clothes,  was  emaciated 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT, 

and  ghastly  pale,  and  bore  the  air  of  one  broken  by  sickness 
and  hardships.  He  saw  her,  and  hastened  towards  her,  but 
his  steps  were  faint  and  faltering  ;  he  sank  on  his  knees  be- 
fore her,  and  sobbed  like  a  child.  The  poor  woman  gazed 
upon  him  with  a  vacant  and  wandering  eye — "  Oh  my  dear, 
dear  mother !  don't  you  know  your  son  ?  your  poor  boy 
George  1''  It  was,  indeed,  the  wreck  of  her  once  noble  lad; 
who,  shattered  by  wounds,  by  sickness,  and  foreign  imprison- 
ment, had,  at  length,  dragged  his  wasted  limbs  homeward, 
to  repose  among  the  scenes  of  his  childhood. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  detail  the  particulars  of  such  a  meet- 
ing, where  sorrow  and  joy  were  so  completely  blended  :  still 
he  was  alive  ! — he  was  come  home  ! — he  might  yet  live  to  com- 
fort and  cherish  her  old  age  !  Nature,  however,  was  exhausted 
in  him  ;  and  if  anything  had  been  wanting  to  finish  the  work 
of  fate,  the  desolation  of  his  native  cottage  would  have  been 
sufficient.  He  stretched  himself  on  the  pallet  on  which  his 
widowed  mother  had  passed  many  a  sleepless  night,  and  he 
never  rose  from  it  again. 

The  villagers,  when  they  heard  that  George  Somers  had 
returned,  crowded  to  see  him,  offering  every  comfort  and  as- 
^sistance  that  their  humble  means  afforded.  He  was  too  weak, 
however,  to  talk — he  could  only  look  his  thanks.  His  mother 
was  his  constant  attendant ;  and  he  seemed  unwilling  to  be 
helped  by  any  other  hand. 

There  is  something  in  sickness  that  breaks  down  the  pride 
of  manhood ;  that  softens  the  heart,  and  brings  it  back  to  the 
feelings  of  infancy.  Who  that  has  languished,  even  in  ad- 
vanced life,  in  sickness  and  despondency  ;  who  that  has  pined 
on  a  weary  bed  in  the  neglect  and  loneliness  of  a  foreign 
land  ;  but  has  thought  on  the  mother  that  looked  on  his 
childhood,"  that  smoothed  his  pillow,  and  administered  to  his 
helplessness  ?  Oh  !  there  is  an  enduring  tenderness  in  the 
love  of  a  mother  to  a  son,  that  transcends  all  other  affections 
ot  the  heart.  It  is  neither  to  be  chilled  by  selfishness,  nor 
daunted  by  danger,  nor  weakened .  by  worthlessness,  nor 


114  IVOI^JirS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 

Stifled  by  ingratitude.  She  will  sacrifice  every  comfort  to  his- 
convenience ;  she  will  surrender  every  pleasure  to  his  enjoy- 
ment ;  she  will  glory  in  his  fame,  and  exult  in  his  prosperity  ; — 
and,  if  misfortune  overtake  him,  he  will  be  the  dearer  to  her 
from  misfortune  ;  and  if  disgrace  settle  upon  his  name,  she 
will  still  love  and  cherish  him  in  spite  of  his  disgrace  ;  and  if 
all  the  world  beside  cast  him  off,  she  will  be  all  the  world 
to  him. 

Poor  George  Somers  had  known  what  it  was  to  be  io 
sickness,  and  none  to  soothe — lonely  and  in  prison,  and  none 
to  visit  him.  He  could  not  endure  his  mother  from  his  sight  ; 
if  she  moved  away,  his  eye  would  follow  her.  She  would  sit 
for  hours  by  his  bed,  watching  him  as  he  slept.  Sometimes 
he  would  start  from  a  feverish  dream,  and  looking  anxiously 
up  until  he  saw  her  bending  over  him,  when  he  would  take 
her  hand,  lay  it  on  his  bosom,  and  fall  asleep  with  the  tran- 
quillity of  a  child.    In  this  way  he  died. 

My  first  impulse,  on  hearing  this  humble  tale  of  affliction 
was  to  visit  the  cottage  of  the  mourner,  and  administer  pecu 
niary  assistance,  and,  if  possible,  comfort.  I  found,  however, 
on  inquiry,  that  the  good  feelings  of  the  villagers  had 
prompted  them  to  do  everything  that  the  case  admitted  ;  and 
as  the  poor  know  best  how  to  console  each  other^s  sorrows,  ] 
did  not  venture  to  intrude. 

The  next  Sunday  I  was  at  the  village  church ;  when,  tc 
my  surprise,  I  saw  the  poor  old  woman  tottering  down  th< 
aisle  to  her  accustomed  seat  on  the  steps  of  the  altar. 

She  had  made  an  effort  to  put  on  something  like  mourning 
for  her  son  ;  and  nothing  could  be  more  touching  than  this- 
struggle  between  pious  affection  and  utter  poverty  :  a  black 
ribbon  or  so — a  faded  black  handkerchief — and  one  or  two 
more  such  humble  attempts  to  express  by  outward  signs  that 
grief  which  passes  show. — When  I  looked  round  upon  the 
Storied  monuments,  the  stately  hatchments,  the  cold  marble 
pomp,  with  which  grandeur  mourned  magnificently  over  de- 
parted  pride,  and  turned  to  this  poor  widow,  bowed  down  by 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT, 

age  and  sorrow  at  the  altar  of  her  God,  and  offering  up  the 
prayers  and  praises  of  a  pious,  though  a  broken  heart,  I  felf 
that  this  Hving  monument  of  real  grief  was  worth  them  all. 

I  related  her  story  to  some  of  the  wealthy  members  of  the 
congregation,  and  they  were  moved  by  it.  They  exerted 
themselves  to  render  her  situation  more  comfortable,  and  to 
lighten  her  afflictions.  It  was,  however,  but  smoothing  a  few 
steps  to  the  grave.  In  the  course  of  a  Sunday  or  two  after, 
she  was  missed  from  her  usual  seat  at  church,  and  before  I 
left  the  neighborhood,  I  heard,  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction, 
that  she  had  quietly  breathed  her  last,  and  had  gone  to  rejoin 
those  she  loved,  in  that  world  where  sorrow  is  never  known, 
and  friends  are  never  parted. 


THE  BOAR'S  HEAD  TAVERN,  EASTCHEAF 

A  SHAKSPERIAN  RESEARCH. 

*'  A  tavern  is  the  rendezvous,  the  exchange,  the  staple  of  good  fellows'^ 
I  have  heard  my  great-grandfather  tell,  how  his  great-great-grandfather 
should  say,  that  it  was  an  old  proverb  when  his  great-grandfather  was  as 
child,  that  *it  was  a  good  wind  that  blew  a  man  to  the  wine.' " 

Mother  Bombie. 

It  is  a  pious  custom,  in  some  Catholic  countries,  to  honor 
the  memory  of  saints  by  votive  lights  burnt  before  their 
pictures.  The  popularity  of  a  saint,  therefore,  may  be  known 
by  the  number  of  these  offerings.  One,  perhaps,  is  left  to 
moulder  in  the  darkness  of  his  little  chapel :  another  may  have 
a  solitary  lamp  to  throw  its  blinking  rays  athwart  his  efFigy  ^. 
while  the  whole  blaze  of  adoration  is  lavished  at  the  shrine  of 
some  beatified  father  of  renown.  The  wealthy  devotee  brings 
his  huge  luminary  of  wax ;  the  eager  zealot,  his  seven- 
branched  candlestick ;  and  even  the  mendicant  pilgrim  is  by 
no  means  satisfied  that  sufficient  light  is  thrown  upon  the 
deceased,  unless  he  hangs  up  his  little  lamp  of  smoking  oil. 
The  consequence  is,  in  the  eagerness  to  enlighten,  they  are 
often  apt  to  obscure  ;  and  I  have  occasionally  seen  an  unlucky 
saint  almost  smoked  out  of  countenance  by  the  officiousness 
of  his  followers. 

In  like  manner  has  it  fared  with  the  immortal  Shakspeare. 
Every  writer  considers  it  his  bounden  duty,  to  light  up  some 
portion  of  his  character  or  works,  and  to  rescue  some  merit 
from  oblivion.  The  commentator,  opulent  in  words,  produces 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT, 

vast  tomes  of  dissertations  ;  the  common  herd  of  editors  send 
up  mists  of  obscurity  from  their  notes  at  the  bottom  of  each 
page  ;  and  every  casual  scribbler  brings  his  farthing  rush-light 
of  eulogy  or  researcl^^  to  swell  the  cloud  of  incense  and  of 
smoke. 

As  I  honor  all  established  usages  of  my  brethren  of  the 
quill,  I  thought  it  but  proper  to  contribute  my  mite  of  homage 
to  the  memory  of  the  illustrious  bard.  I  was  for  some  time, 
however,  sorely  puzzled  in  what  way  I  should  discharge  this 
duty.  I  found  myself  anticipated  in  every  attempt  at  a  new 
reading ;  every  doubtful  line  had  been  explained  a  dozen 
different  ways,  and  perplexed  beyond  the  reach  of  elucida- 
tion ;  and  as  to  fine  passages,  they  had  all  been  amply  praised 
by  previous  admirers  :  nay,  so  completely  had  the  bard,  of 
late,  been  overlarded  with  panegyric  by  a  great  German  critic, 
that  it  was  difficult  now  to  find  even  a  fault  that  had  not  been 
argued  into  a  beauty. 

In  this  perplexity,  I  was  one  morning  turning  over  his 
pages,  when  I  casually  opened  upon  the  comic  scenes  of 
Henry  IV.,  and  was,  in  a  moment,  completely  lost  in  the  mad- 
cap  revelry  of  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern.  So  vividly  and  natur- 
ally are  these  scenes  of  humor  depicted,  and  with  such  force 
and  consistency  are  the  characters  sustained,  that  they  be- 
come mingled  up  in  the  mind  with  the  facts  and  personages 
of  real  life.  To  few  readers  does  it  occur,  that  these  are  all 
ideal  creations  of  a  poet's  brain,  and  that,  in  sober  truth,  no 
such  knot  of  merry  roisterers  ever  enlivened  the  dull  neighbor* 
hood  of  Eastcheap. 

For  my  part,  I  love  to  give  myself  up  to  the  illusions  of 
poetry.  A  hero  of  fiction  that  never  existed,  is  just  as  valua- 
ble to  me  as  a  hero  of  history  that  existed  a  thousand  years 
since  :  and,  if  I  may  be  excused  such  an  insensibility  to  the 
common  ties  of  human  nature,  I  would  not  give  up  fat  Jack 
^  )r  half  the  great  men  of  ancient  chronicle.  What  have  the 
licroes  of  yore  done  for  me,  or  men  like  me  ?  They  have  con- 
quered countries  of  which  I  do  not  enjoy  an  acre ;  or  they 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


have  gained  laurels  of  which  I  do  not  inherit  a  leaf ;  or  the/ 
have  furnished  examples  of  hair-brained  prowess,  which  I 
have  neither  the  opportunity  nor  the  inclination  to  follow. 
But  old  Jack  Falstaff !  — kind  Jack  Falstaff  ! — sweet  Jack 
Falstaff !  has  enlarged  the  boundaries  of  human  enjoyment ; 
he  has  added  vast  regions  of  wit  and  good-humor,  in  which  the 
poorest  man  may  revel  j  and  has  bequeathed  a  never-failing 
inheritance  of  jolly  laughter,  to  make  mankind  merrier  and 
better  to  the  latest  posterity. 

A  thought  suddenly  struck  me  :  "  I  will  make  a  pilgrimage 
to  Eastcheap,^'  said  I,  closing  the  book,  and  see  if  the  old 
Boar's  Head  Tavern  still  exists.  Who  knows  but  I  may  light 
upon  some  legendary  traces  of  Dame  Quickly  and  her  guests  ; 
at  any  rate,  there  will  be  a  kindred  pleasure,  in  treading  the 
halls  once  vocal  with  their  mirth,  to  that  the  toper  enjoys  in 
smelling  to  the  empty  cask,  once  filled  with  generous  wine,''* 

The  resolution  was  no  sooner  formed  than  put  in  execu- 
tion. I  forbear  to  treat  of  the  various  adventures  and 
wonders  I  encountered  in  my  travels,  of  the  haunted  regions 
of  Cock-lane ;  of  the  faded  glories  of  Little  Britain,  and  the 
parts  adjacent  ;  what  perils  I  ran  in  Cateaton-street  and  Old 
Jewry ;  of  the  renowned  Guildhall  and  its  two  stunted  giants, 
the  pride  and  wonder  of  the  city,  and  the  terror  of  all  unlucky 
urchins ;  and  how  I  visited  London  Stone,  and  struck  my 
staff  upon  it,  in  imitation  of  that  arch-rebel,  Jack  Cade. 

Let  it  suffice  to  say,  that  I  at  length  arrived  in  merry 
Eastcheap,  that  ancient  region  of  wit  and  wassail,  where  the 
very  names  of  the  streets  relished  of  good  cheer,  as  Pudding- 
lane  bears  testimony  even  at  the  present  day.  For  Eastcheap, 
says  old  Stow,  "  was  always  famous  for  its  convivial  doings. 
The  cookes  cried  hot  ribbes  of  beef  roasted,  pies  well  baked, 
and  other  victuals  ;  there  was  clattering  of  pewter  pots,  harpe, 
pipe,  and  sawtrie."  Alas  !  how  sadly  is  the  scene  changed 
since  the  roaring  days  of  FalstafI  and  old  Stow  !  The  mad- 
cap roisterer  has  given  place  to  the  plodding  tradesman  ;  the 
clattering  of  pots  and  the  sound  of  "  harpe  and  sawtrie,"  tG» 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT, 

the  din  of  carts  and  the  accurst  dinging  of  the  dustman's 
bell ;  and  n*^  song  is  heard,  save,  haply,  the  strain  of  some 
syren  from  Billingsgate,  chanting  the  eulogy  of  deceased 
mackerel. 

1  sought,  in  vain,  for  the  ancient  abode  of  Dame  Quickly. 
The  only  relict  of  it  is  a  boar's  head,  carved  in  relief  stone, 
which  formerly  served  as  the  sign,  but,  at  present,  is  built  into 
the  parting  line  of  two  houses  which  stand  on  the  site  of  the 
renowned  old  tavern. 

For  the  history  of  this  little  empire  of  good  fellowship,  I 
was  referred  to  a  tallow-chandler's  widow,  opposite,  who  had 
been  born  and  brought  up  on  the  spot,  and  was  looked  up  ta 
as  the  indisputable  chronicler  of  the  neighborhood.  I  found 
her  seated  in  a  little  back  parlor,  the  window  of  which  looked 
out  upon  a  yard  about  eight  feet  square,  laid  out  as  a  flower- 
garden  ;  while  a  glass  door  opposite  afforded  a  distant  peep 
of  the  street,  through  a  vista  of  soap  and  tallow  candles  ;  the 
two  views,  which  comprised,  in  all  probability,  her  prospects 
in  life,  and  the  little  world  in  which  she  had  lived,  and  moved, 
and  had  her  being,  for  the  better  part  of  a  century. 

To  be  versed  in  the  history  of  Eastcheap,  great  and  little,, 
from  London  Stone  even  unto  the  Monument,  was,  doubtless, 
in  her  opinion,  to  be  acquainted  with  the  history  of  the  uni- 
verse. Yet,  with  all  this,  she  possessed  the  simplicity  of  true 
wisdom,  and  that  liberal,  communicative  disposition,  which  I 
have  generally  remarked  in  intelligent  o!d  ladies,  knowing  in 
the  concerns  of  their  neighborhood. 

Her  information,  however,  did  not  extend  far  back  into 
antiquity.  She  could  throw  no  light  upon  the  history  of  the 
Boar's  Head,  from  the  time  that  Dame  Quickly  espoused  the 
valiant  Pistol,  until  the  great  fire  of  London,  when  it  was  un- 
fortunately burnt  down.  It  was  soon  rebuilt,  and  continued 
to  flourish  under  the  old  name  and  sign,  until  a  dying  land- 
lord, struck  with  remorse  for  double  scores,  bad  measures, 
and  other  iniquities  which  are  incident  to  the  sinful  race  of 
publicans,  endeavored  to  make  his  peace  with  Heaven,  by 


320 


WORJ^S  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


iequeathing  the  tavern  to  St.  Michael's  church,  Crooked-lane, 
toward  the  supporting  of  a  chaplain.  For  some  time  tht 
vestry  meetings  were  regularly  held  there  ;  but  it  was  ob- 
served that  the  old  Boar  never  held  up  his  head  under  church 
government.  He  gradually  declined,  and  finally  gave  his 
last  gasp  about  thirty  years  since.  The  tavern  was  then 
turned  into  shops ;  but  she  informed  me  that  a  picture  of  it 
was  still  preserved  in  St.  Michael's  church,  which  stood  just 
in  the  rear.  To  get  a  sight  of  this  picture  was  now  my  de- 
termination ;  so,  having  informed  myself  of  the  abode  of  the 
sexton,  I  took  my  leave  of  the  venerable  chronicler  of  East- 
cheap,  my  visit  having  doubtless  raised  greatly  her  opinion  of 
her  legendary  lore,  and  furnished  an  important  incident  in 
the  history  of  her  life. 

It  cost  me  some  difficulty,  and  much  curious  inquiry,  to 
ierret  out  the  humble  hanger-on  to  the  church.  I  had  to  ex- 
plore Crooked-lane,  and  divers  little  alleys,  and  dark  elbows, 
and  dark  passages,  with  which  this  old  city  is  perforated,  like 
an  ancient  cheese,  or  a  worm-eaten  chest  of  drawers.  At 
length  I  traced  him  to  a  corner  of  a  small  court,  surrounded 
by  lofty  houses,  where  the  inhabitants  enjoy  about  as  much  of 
the  face  of  heaven,  as  a  community  of  frogs  at  the  bottom  of  a 
well.  The  sexton  was  a  meek,  acquiescing  little  man,  of  a 
bowing,  lowly  habit ;  yet  he  had  a  pleasant  twinkling  in  his 
eye,  and  if  encouraged,  would  now  and  then  venture  a  small 
pleasantry ;  such  as  a  man  of  his  low  estate  might  venture 
to  make  in  the  company  of  high  churchwardens,  and  othev 
mighty  men  of  the  earth.  I  found  him  in  company  with  the 
deputy  organist,  seated  apart,  like  Milton^s  angels ;  discours- 
ing, no  doubt,  on  high  doctrinal  points,  and  settling  the 
affairs  of  the  church  over  a  friendly  pot  of  ale  ;  for  the  lower 
classes  of  English  seldom  deliberate  on  any  weighty  matter, 
without  the  assistance  of  a  cool  tankard  to  clear  their  under- 
standings. I  arrived  at  the  moment  when  they  had  finished 
their  ale  and  their  argument,  and  were  about  to  repair  to 
the  church  to  put  it  in  order ;  so,  having  made  known  my 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  i^^. 


wishes,  I  received  their  gracious  permission  to  accompany 
them. 

The  church  of  St.  Michael's,  Crooked-lane,  standing  a 
short  distance  from  Billingsgate,  is  enriched  with  the  tombs 
of  many  fishmongers  of  renown ;  and  as  every  profession  has 
its  galaxy  of  glory,  and  its  constellation  of  great  men,  I  pre- 
sume the  monument  of  a  mighty  fishmonger  of  the  olden  time- 
is  regarded  with  as  much  reverence  by  succeeding  generations 
of  the  craft,  as  poets  feel  on  contemplating  the  tomb  of  Virgil, 
or  soldiers  the  monument  of  a  Marlborough  or  Turenne. 

I  cannot  but  turn  aside,  while  thus  speaking  of  illustrious 
men,  to  observe  that  St.  MichaeFs,  Crooked-lane,  contains 
also  the  ashes  of  that  doughty  champion,  William  Walworth, 
Knight,  who  so  manfully  clove  down  the  sturdy  wight,  Wat 
Tyler,  in  Smithfield  ;  a  hero  worthy  of  honorable  blazon,  as^ 
almost  the  only  Lord  Mayor  on  record  famous  for  deeds  of 
arms  ;  the  sovereigns  of  Cockney  being  generally  renowned, 
as  the  m.ost  pacific  of  all  potentates.^ 

*  The  following  was  the  ancient  inscription  on  the  monument  of  this 
worthy,  which,  unhappily,  was  destroyed  in  the  great  conflagration. 

Hereunder  lyth  a  man  of  fame, 
William  Walworth  cailyd  by  name 
Fishmonger  he  was  in  lyfftime  here, 
And  twise  Lord  Maior,  as  in  books  appeare ; 
Who,  with  courage  stout  and  manly  myght, 
Slew  Jack  Straw  in  Kyng  Richard's  sight, 
For  which  act  done,  and  trew  entent, 
The  Kyng  made  him  knyght  incontinent ; 
And  gave  him  armes,  as  here  you  see, 
To  declare  his  fact  and  chivaidrie  : 
He  left  this  lyff  the  year  of  our  God 
Thirteen  hondred  fourscore  and  three  odd. 

An  error  in  the  foregoing  inscription  has  been  corrected  by  the  vener- 
able Stow :  "  Whereas,"  saith  he,  "  it  hath  been  far  spread  abroad  by 
vulgar  opinion,  that  the  rebel  smitten  down  so  manfully  by  Sir  William 
Walworth,  the  then  worthy  Lord  Maior,  was  named  Jack  Straw,  and  not 
Wat  Tyle^  I  thought  good  to  reconcile  this  rash  conceived  doubt  by  such 
testimony  as  I  find  in  ancient  and  good  records.  The  principal  leaders,  or 
captains,  of  the  commons,  were  Wat  Tyler,  as  the  first  man ;  the  second 
was  John,  or  Jack,  Straw,  &c.,  &c. — Stow's  London. 


122 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


Adjoining  the  church,  in  a  small  cemetery,  immediately 
tinder  the  back  windows  of  what  was  once  the  Boar's  Head, 
stands  the  tombstone  of  Robert  Preston,  whilome  drawer  at 
the  tavern.  It  is  now  nearly  a  century  since  this  trusty 
drawer  of  good  liquor  closed  his  bustling  career,  and  was  thus 
quietly  deposited  within  call  of  his  customers.  As  I  was 
clearing  away  the  weeds  from  his  epitaph,  the  little  sexton 
drew  me  on  one  side  with  a  mysterious  air  and  informed  me, 
in  a  low  voice,  that  once  upon  a  time,  on  a  dark  wintry 
night,  when  the  w-ind  was  unruly,  howling  and  whistling,  bang- 
ing about  doors  and  windows,  and  twirling  weathercocks,  so 
that  the  living  were  frightened  out  of  their  beds,  and  even  the 
dead  could  not  sleep  quietly  in  their  graves,  the  ghost  of  hon- 
est Preston,  which  happened  to  be  airing  itself  in  the  church^ 
yard,  was  attracted  by  the  well-known  call  of  "  waiter,"  from 
the  Boar's  Head,  and  made  its  sudden  appearance  in  the 
midst  of  a  roaring  club,  just  as  the  parish  clerk  was  singing 
a  stave  from  the  mirrie  garland  of  Captain  Death  to  the 
discomfiture  of  sundry  train-band  captains,  and  the  conversion 
of  an  infidel  attorney,  who  became  a  zealous  Christian  on  the 
spot,  and  was  never  known  to  twist  the  truth  afterwards,  ex- 
cept in  the  way  of  business. 

I  beg  it  may  be  remembered,  that  I  do  not  pledge  myself 
for  the  authenticity  of  this  anecdote  ;  though  it  is  well  known 
that  the  churchyards  and  by-corners  of  this  old  metropolis 
are  very  much  infested  with  perturbed  spirits  ;  and  everyone 
must  have  heard  of  the  Cock-lane  ghost,  and  the  apparition 
that  guards  the  regalia  in  the  Tower,  which  has  frightened  so 
imany  bold  sentinels  almost  out  of  their  wits. 

Be  all  this  as  it  may,  this  Robert  Preston  seems  to  have 
been  a  worthy  successor  to  the  nimble-tongued  Francis,  who 
attended  upon  the  revels  of  Prince  Hal ;  to  have  been  equally 
.prompt  with  his  "  anon,  anon,  sir,"  and  to  have  transcended 
•his  predecessor  in  honesty ;  for  Falstaff,  the  veracity  of 
-whose  taste  no  man  will  venture  to  impeach,  flatly  accuses 
Francis  of  putting  lime  in  his  sack  ;  whereas,  honest  Preston'a 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.      12 j 

epitaph  lauds  him  for  the  sobriety  of  his  conduct,  the 
soundness  of  his  wine,  and  the  fairness  of  his  measure. The 
worthy  dignitaries  of  the  church,  however,  did  not  appear 
much  captivated  by  the  sober  virtues  of  the  tapster :  the 
deputy  organist,  who  had  a  moist  look  out  of  the  eye,  made 
some  shrewd  remark  on  the  abstemiousness  of  a  man  brought 
up  among  full  hogsheads ;  and  the  little  sexton  corroborated 
his  opinion  by  a  significant  wink,  and  a  dubious  shake  of  the 
head. 

Thus  far  my  researches,  though  they  threw  much  light  on 
the  history  of  tapsters,  fishmongers,  and  Lord  Mayors,  yet 
disappointed  me  in  the  great  object  of  my  quest,  the  picture 
of  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern.  No  such  painting  was  to  be 
found  in  the  church  of  St.  Michael's.  Marry  and  amen  !  '^ 
said  I,  "  here  endeth  my  research  !  "  So  I  was  giving  the  mat- 
ter up,  with  the  air  of  a  baffled  antiquary,  when  my  friend  the- 
sexton,  perceiving  me  to  be  curious  in  everything  relative  to  th^ 
old  tavern,  offered  to  show  me  the  choice  vessels  of  the  vestry, 
which  had  been  handed  down  from  remote  times,  when  the 
parish  meetings  were  held  at  the  Boar's  Head.  These  were 
deposited  in  the  parish  club-room,  which  had  been  transferred^ 
on  the  decline  of  the  ancient  establishment,  (x)  a  tavern  in  the 
neighborhood. 

A  few  steps  brought  us  to  the  house,  which  stands  No. 
12,  Mile-lane,  bearing  the  title  of  The  Mason's  Arms,  and  is 
kept  by  Master  Edward  Honeyball,  the  "bully-rock"  of  the 

*  As  this  inscription  is  rife  with  excellent  morality,  I  transcribe  it  for 
the  admonition  of  delinquent  tapsters.  It  is,  no  doubt,  the  production  oi 
some  choice  spirit,  who  once  frequented  the  Boar's  Head. 

Bacchus,  to  give  the  toping  world  surprise, 
Produced  one  sober  son,  and  here  he  lies. 
Though  rear'd  among  full  hogsheads,  he  defied 
The  charms  of  wine,  and  every  one  beside. 
O  reader,  if  to  justice  thou  'rt  inclined, 
Keep  honest  Preston  daily  in  thy  mind. 
He  drew  good  wine,  took  care  to  fill  his  pots, 
Had  sundry  virtues  that  excused  his  faults. 
You  that  on  Bacchus  have  the  like  dependency 
Pray  copy  Bob,  in  measure  and  attendance. 


224 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


establishment.  It  is  one  of  those  little  taverns,  which  abound 
in  the  heart  of  the  city,  and  form  the  centre  of  gossip  and 
intelligence  of  the  neighborhood.  We  entered  the  bar-room, 
■which  was  narrow  and  darkling ;  for  in  these  close  lanes  but 
few  rays  of  reflected  light  are  enabled  to  struggle  down  to  the 
inhabitants,  whose  broad  day  is  at  best  but  a  tolerable  twi- 
light. The  room  was  partitioned  into  boxes,  each  containing 
a  table  spread  with  a  clean  white  cloth,  ready  for  dinner. 
This  showed  that  the  guests  were  of  the  good  old  stamp,  and 
divided  their  day.  equally,  for  it  was  but  just  one  o'clock. 
At  the  lower  end  of  the  room  was  a  clear  coal  fire,  before 
which  a  breast  of  lamb  was  roasting.  A  row  of  bright 
brass  candlesticks  and  pewter  mugs  glistened  along  the  man- 
telpiece, and  an  old-fashoned  clock  ticked  in  one  corner 
There  was  something  primitive  in  this  medley  of  kitchen, 
parlor,  and  hall,  that  carried  me  back  to  earlier  times,  and 
pleased  me.  The  place,  indeed,  was  humble,  but  everything 
had  that  look  of  order  and  neatness  which  bespeaks  the 
superintendence  of  a  notable  English  housewife.  A  group 
of  amphibious  looking  beings,  who  might  be  either  fishermen 
or  sailors,  were  regaling  themselves  in  one  of  the  boxes.  As 
I  was  a  visitor  of  rather  higher  pretensions,  I  was  ushered 
into  a  little  misshapen  back  room,  having  at  least  nine 
corners.  It  was  lighted  by  a  sky-light,  furnished  with  anti- 
quated leathern  chairs,  and  ornamented  with  the  portrait  of 
a  fat  pig.  It  was  evidently  appropriated  to  particular  cus- 
tomers, and  I  found  a  shabby  gentleman,  in  a  red  nose,  and 
oil-cloth  hat,  seated  in  one  corner,  meditating  on  a  half-empty 
pot  of  porter. 

The  old  sexton  had  taken  the  landlady  aside,  and  with 
an  air  of  profound  importance  imparted  to  her  my  errand. 
Dame  Honeyball  v/as  a  likely,  plump,  bustling  little  woman, 
and  no  bad  substitute  for  that  paragon  of  hostesses,  Dame 
Quickly,  She  seemed  delighted  with  an  opportunity  to 
oblige  ;  and  hurrying  up  stairs  to  the  archives  of  her  house, 
where  the  precious  vessels  of  the  parish  club  were  deposit- 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  125 

ed,  she  returned,  smiling  and  curtseying  with  them  in  her 
hands. 

The  first  she  presented  me  was  a  japanned  iron  tobacco- 
box,  of  gigantic  size,  out  of  which,  I  was  told,  the  vestry  had 
smoked  at  their  stated  meetings,  since  time  immemorial  ;  and 
which  was  never  suffered  to  be  profaned  by  vulgar  hands, 
or  used  on  common  occasions.  I  received  it  with  becoming; 
reverence  ;  but  what  was  my  delight,  at  beholding  on  its 
cover  the  identical  painting  of  which  I  was  in  quest  !  There 
was  displayed  the  outside  of  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern,  and 
before  the  door  was  to  be  seen  the  whole  convivial  group,  at 
table,  in  full  revel,  pictured  with  that  wonderful  fidelity  and 
force,  with  which  the  portraits  of  renowned  generals  and  com- 
modores are  illustrated  on  tobacco  boxes,  for  the  benefit  of 
posterity.  Lest,  however,  there  should  be  any  mistake,  the 
cunning  limner  had  warily  inscribed  the  names  of  Prince  Hal 
and  Falstaff  on  the  bottoms  of  their  chairs. 

On  the  inside  of  the  cover  was  an  inscription,  nearly 
obliterated,  recording  that  this  box  was  the  gift  of  Sir  Richard 
Gore,  for  tne  use  of  the  vestry  meetings  at  the  Boar's  Head 
Tavern,  and  that  it  was  "  repaired  and  beautified  by  his  suc- 
cessor, Mr.  John  Packard,  1767."  Such  is  a  faithful  descrip^ 
tion  of  this  august  and  venerable  relic,  and  I  question  whether 
the  learned  Scriblerius  contemplated  his  Roman  shield,  or 
the  Knights  of  the  Round  Table  the  long-sought  sangreal,. 
with  more  exultation. 

While  I  was  meditating  on  it  with  enraptured  gaze. 
Dame  Honeyball,  who  was  highly  gratified  by  the  interest 
it  excited,  put  in  my  hands  a  drinking  cup  or  goblet,  which 
also  belonged  to  the  vestry,  and  was  descended  from  the  old 
Boar's  Head.  It  bore  the  inscription  of  having  been  the 
gift  of  Francis  Wythers,  Knight,  and  was  held,  she  told  me^ 
in  exceeding  great  value,  being  considered  very  "antykc.*'^ 
This  last  opinion  was  strengthened  by  the  shabby  gentleman 
with  the  red  nose,  and  oil-cloth  hat,  and  whom  I  strongly 
suspected  of  being  a  lineal  descendant  from  the  valiant  Bar- 


126 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


■dolph.    He  suddenly  aroused  from  his  meditation  on  the  pot 
of  porter,  and  casting  a  knowing  look  at  the  goblet,  exclaimed, 
Ay  ay,  the  head  don't  ache  now  that  made  that  there 
•article." 

The  great  importance  attached  to  this  memento  of  ancient 
revelry  by  modern  churchwardens,  at  first  puzzled  me  ;  but 
there  is  nothing  sharpens  the  apprehension  so  much  as  anti- 
quarian research  ;  for  I  immediately  perceived  that  this  could 
be  no  other  than  the  identical  "  parcel-gilt  goblet  "  on  w^hich 
Falstaft  made  his  loving,  but  faithless  vow  to  Dame  Quickly  : 
and  which  would,  of  course,  be  treasured  up  with  care  among 
the  regalia  of  her  domains,  as  a  testimony  ofthat  solemn  con- 
tract.^ 

Mine  hostess,  indeed,  gave  me  a  long  history  how  the 
goblet  had  been  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation. 
She  also  entertained  me  with  many  particulars  concerning 
the  worthy  vestrymen  who  have  seated  themselves  thus  quietly 
on  the  stools  of  the  ancient  roysters  of  Eastcheap,  and,  like 
so  many  commentators,  utter  clouds  of  smoke  in  honor  of 
Shakspeare.  These  I  forbear  to  relate,  lest  my  readers 
should  not  be  as  curious  in  these  matters  as  myself.  Suffice 
it  to  say,  the  neighbors,  one  and  all,  about  Eastcheap,  believe 
that  Falstaff  and  his  merry  crew  actually  lived  and  revelled 
there.  Nay,  there  are  several  legendary  anecdotes  con- 
cerning him  still  extant  among  the  oldest  frequenters  of  the 
Mason's  Arms,  which  they  give  as  transmitted  down  from 
their  forefathers ;  and  Mr.  M'Kash,  an  Irish  hair-dresser, 
whose  shop  stands  on  the  site  of  the  old  Boar's  Head,  has 
several  dry  jokes  of  Fat  Jack's,  not  laid  down  in  the  books, 
v/ith  which  he  makes  his  customers  ready  to  die  of  laughter. 

I  now  turned  to  my  friend  the  sexton  to  make  some 

*  Thou  didst  swear  to  me  upon  a  parcel-gilt  goblet^  sitting  in  my  Dol- 
phin Chamber,  at  the  round  table,  by  a  sea-coal  fire,  on  Wednesday  in 
Whitsun  week,  when  the  Prince  broke  thy  head  for  likening  his  father  to  a 
ringing  man  of  Windsor  ;  thou  didst  swear  to  me  then,  as  I  was  washing  thy 
woundj  to  marry  me,  and  make  me  my  lady,  thy  wife.  Canst  thou  deny 
it  Henry  IV.  part  % 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON.  GENT,  j^,- 

larther  inquiries,  but  I  found  him  sunk  in  pensive  meditation. 
His  head  had  declined  a  little  on  one  side  ;  a  deep  sigh 
heaved  from  the  very  bottom  of  his  stomach,  and,  though  I 
could  *"ot  see  a  tear  trembling  in  his  eye,  yet  a  moisture  was 
•evidently  stealing  from  a  corner  of  his  mouth.  I  followed  the 
direction  of  his  eye  through  the  door  which  stood  open,  and 
found  it  fixed  wistfully  on  the  savory  breast  of  lamb,  roasting 
In  dripping  richness  before  the  fire. 

1  novv^  called  to  mind,  that  in  the  eagerness  of  my  recondite 
investigation,  I  was  keeping  the  poor  man  from  his  dinner. 
My  bowels  yearned  with  sympathy,  and  putting  in  his  hand 
a  small  token  of  my  gratitude  and  good-will,  I  departed  with 
a  hearty  benediction  on  him.  Dame  Honeyball,  and  the  parish 
club  of  Crooked-lane — not  forgetting  my  shabby,  but  senten- 
tious friend,  in  the  oil-cloth  hat  and  copper  nose. 

Thus  I  have  given  a  "  tedious  brief"  account  of  this  interest- 
ing research  ;  for  which,  if  it  prove  too  short  and  unsatisfactory, 
I  can  only  plead  my  inexperience  in  this  branch  of  literature, 
so  deservedly  popular  at  the  present  day.  I  am  aware  that  a 
more  skilful  illustrator  of  the  immortal  bard  would  have 
swelled  the  materials  I  have  touched  upon,  to  a  good  mer- 
chantable bulk,  comprising  the  biographies  of  William 
Walworth,  Jack  Straw,  and  Robert  Preston  ;  some  notice  of 
the  eminent  fishmongers  of  St.  Michael's  ;  the  history  of 
Eastcheap,  great  and  Uttle ;  private  anecdotes  of  Dame 
Honeyball  and  her  pretty  daughter,  whom  I  have  not  even 
^mentioned  :  to  say  nothing  of  a  damsel  tending  the  breast  of 
iamb  (  and  whom,  by  the  way,  I  remarked  to  be  a  comely  lass 
w  ith  a  neat  foot  and  ankle) ;  the  whole  enlivened  by  the 
riots  of  Wat  Tyler,  and  illuminated  by  the  great  fire  of  London. 

All  this  I  leave  as  a  rich  mine  to  be  worked  by  future 
commentatorb  j  nor  do  I  despair  of  seeing  the  tobacco-box, 
and  the  "  parcel-gilt  goblet,''  which  I  have  thus  brought  to 
light,  the  subject  of  future  engravings,  and  almost  as  fruitful 
of  voluminous  dissertations  and  disputes  as  the  shield  of 
Aphilles.  or  the  far-famed  Portland  vase. 


Xa6f  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVIN(S. 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE. 

A  COLLOQUY  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

I  know  that  all  beneath  the  moon  decays, 
And  what  by  mortals  in  this  world  is  brought. 
In  time's  great  periods  shall  return  to  nought. 

I  know  that  all  the  muses'  heavenly  layes, 
With  toil  of  sprite  which  are  so  dearly  bought. 
As  idle  sounds  of  few  or  none  are  sought, 

That  there  is  nothing  lighter  than  mere  praise. 

Drummond  of  Hawthornden- 

There  are  certain  half-dreaming  moods  of  mind,  in  which 
we  naturally  steal  away  from  noise  and  glare,  and  seek  some 
quiet  haunt,  where  we  may  indulge  our  reveries,  and  build 
our  air  castles  undisturbed.  In  such  a  mood,  I  was  loitering^ 
about  the  old  gray  cloisters  of  Westminster  Abbey,  enjoying; 
the  luxury  of  wandering  thought  which  one  is  apt  to  dignif)r 
with  the  name  of  reflection  ;  when  suddenly  an  irruption  of 
madcap  boys  from  Westminster  school,  playing  at  foot-ball, 
broke  in  upon  the  monastic  stillness  of  the  place,  making  the 
vaulted  passages  and  mouldering  tombs  echo  with  their  merri- 
ment. I  sought  to  take  refuge  from  their  noise  by  penetrat- 
ing still  deeper  into  the  solitudes  of  the  pile,  and  applied  to 
one  of  the  vergers  for  admission  to  the  library.  He  conducted 
me  through  a  portal  rich  with  the  crumbling  sculpture  of 
former  ages,  which  opened  upon  a  gloomy  passage  leading  to 
the  Chapter-house,  and  the  chamber  in  which  Doomsday 
Book  is  deposited.  Just  within  the  passage  is  a  small  door 
on  the  left.  To  this  the  verger  applied  a  key  ;  it  was  double 
locked,  and  opened  with  some  difficulty,  as  if  seldom  used. 
"We  now  ascended  a  dark  narrow  staircase,  and  passing; 
through  a  second  door,  entered  the  library. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  VOAT,  GENT.  129 

I  found  myself  in  a  lotty  antique  hall,  the  roof  supported  by 
'massive  joists  of  old  English  oak.  It  was  soberly  lighted  by 
a  row  of  Gothic  windows  at  a  considerable  height  from  the 
floor,  and  which  apparently  opened  upon  the  roofs  of  the 
cloisters.  An  ancient  picture  of  some  reverend  dignitary  of 
the  church  in  his  robes  hung  over  the  fire-place.  Around 
•  the  hall  and  in  a  small  gallery  were  the  books,  arranged  in 
carved  oaken  cases.  They  consisted  principally  of  old  polem- 
ical writers,  and  were  much  more  worn  by  time  than  use. 
In  the  centre  of  the  library  was  a  solitary  table,  with  two  or 
three  books  on  it,  an  inkstand  without  ink,  and  a  few  pens 
parched  by  long  disuse.  The  place  seemed  fitted  for  quiet 
study  and  profound  meditation.  It  was  buried  deep  among 
the  massive  walls  of  the  abbey,  and  shut  up  from  the  tumult 
of  the  world.  I  could  only  hear  now  and  then  the  shouts  o: 
the  schoolboys  faintly  swelling  from  the  cloisters,  and  the 
sound  of  a  bell  tolling  for  prayers  that  echoed  soberly  along 
the  roofs  of  the  abbey.  By  degrees  the  shouts  of  merriment 
grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and  at  length  died  away.  The  bell 
ceased  to  toll,  and  a  profound  silence  reigned  through  the 
dusky  hall. 

I  had  taken  down  a  little  thick  quarto,  curiously  bound  in 
parchment,  with  brass  clasps,  and  seated  myself  at  the  table 
in  a  venerable  elbow  chair.  Instead  of  reading,  however,  I 
was  beguiled  by  the  solemn  monastic  air  and  lifeless  quiet 
of  the  place,  into  a  train  of  musing.  As  I  looked  around 
upon  the  old  volumes  in  their  mouldering  covers,  thus  ranged 
on  the  shelves,  and  apparently  never  disturbed  in  their  repose, 
I  could  not  but  consider  the  library  a  kind  of  literary  catacomb, 
-where  authors,  like  mummies,  are  piously  entombed,  and  left 
to  blacken  and  moulder  in  dusty  oblivion. 

How  much,  thought  I,  has  each  of  these  volumes,  now 
thrust  aside  with  such  indifference,  cost  some  aching  head — 
iiow  many  weary  days  !  how  many  sleepless  nights  !  How 
have  their  authors  buried  themselves  in  the  solitude  of  cells 
^nd  cloisters ;  shut  themselves  up  from  the  face  of  man,  and 
^  9 


130  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 

the  stili  more  blessed  face  of  nature  ;  and  devoted  themselvei^ 
to  painful  research  and  intense  reflection  !  And  all  for  what  > 
to  occupy  an  inch  of  dusty  shelf — to  have  the  titles  of  their 
works  read  now  and  then  in  a  future  age,  by  some  drowsy 
churchman,  or  casual  straggler  like  myself ;  and  in  another 
age  to  be  lost  even  to  remembrance.  Such  is  the  amount 
of  this  boasted  immortality.  A  mere  temporary  rumor,  a 
local  sound  ;  like  the  tone  of  that  bell  which  has  just  tolled 
among  these  towers,  filling  the  ear  for  a  moment — lingering; 
transiently  in  echo — and  then  passing  away,  like  a  thing  that 
was  not ! 

While  I  sat  half-murmuring,  half-meditating  these  unjjrof* 
itable  speculations,  with  my  head  resting  on  my  hand,  I  was. 
thrumming  with  the  other  hand  upon  the  quarto,  until  I  ac- 
cidentally loosened  the  clasps  ;  when,  to  my  utter  astonishment^ 
the  little  book  gave  two  or  three  yawns,  like  one  awaking  front, 
a  deep  sleep  ;  then  a  husky  hem,  and  at  length  began  to  talk« 
At  first  its  voice  was  very  hoarse  and  broken,  being  much 
troubled  by  a  cobweb  which  some  studious  spider  had  woven- 
across  it ;  and  having  probably  contracted  a  cold  from  long  ex- 
posure to  the  chills  and  damps  of  the  abbey.  In  a  short: 
time,  however,  it  became  more  distinct,  and  I  soon  found  it 
an  exceedingly  fluent  conversable  little  tome.  Its  language^ 
to  be  sure,  was  rather  quaint  and  obsolete,  and  its  pronuncia- 
tion what  in  the  present  day  v/ould  be  deemed  barbarous;, 
but  I  shall  endeavor,  as  far  as  I  am  able,  to  render  it  irt 
modern  parlance. 

It  began  with  railings  about  the  neglect  of  the  world — 
about  merit  being  vSuffered  to  languish  in  obscurity,  and  other 
such  commonplace  topics  of  literary  repining,  and  complained 
bitterly  that  it  had  not  been  opened  for  more  than  two  cen- 
turies ; — that  the  Dean  only  looked  now  and  then  into  the 
library,  sometimes  took  down  a  volume  or  two,  trifled  with 
them  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  returned  them  to  their 
shelves. 

**  Wl.\ata  plague  do  they  mean,"  said  the  little  qua^'ta* 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  131 

which  J  began  to  perceive  was  somewhat  choleric,  "  what 
a  plague  do  they  mean  by  keeping  several  thousand  volumes 
ot  us  shut  up  here,  and  watched  by  a  set  of  old  vergers,  like 
150  many  beauties  in  a  harem,  merely  to  be  looked  at  now 
and  then  by  the  Dean  ?  Books  were  written  to  give  pleasure 
and  to  be  enjoyed  ;  and  I  would  have  a  rule  passed  that  the 
Dean  should  pay  each  of  us  a  visit  at  least  once  a  year ;  or  il 
he  is  not  equal  to  the  task,  let  them  once  in  a  while  turn  loose 
the  whole  school  of  Westminster  among  us,  that  at  any  rate 
we  may  now  and  then  have  an  airing/' 

"  Softly,  my  worthy  friend,"  replied  I,  "  you  are  not  aware 
.how  much  better  you  are  off  than  most  books  of  your  genera- 
tion. By  being  stored  away  in  this  ancient  library,  you  are 
like  the  treasured  remains  of  those  saints  and  monarchs  which 
lie  enshrined  in  the  adjoining  chapels  \  while  the  remains  of 
their  contemporary  mortals,  left  to  the  ordinary  course  of  na- 
ture, have  long  since  returned  to  dust." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  little  tome,  ruffling  his  leaves  and  looking 
big,  "  I  was  wri:ten  for  all  the  world,  not  for  the  bookworms 
■of  an  abbey.  I  was  intended  to  circulate  from  hand  to  hand, 
like  other  great  contemporary  works  ;  but  here  have  I  been 
clasped  up  for  more  than  two  centuries,  and  might  have  si- 
lently fallen  a  prey  to  these  worms  that  are  playing  the  very 
vengeance  with  my  intestines,  if  you  had  not  by  chance  given 
me  an  opportunity  of  uttering  a  few  last  words  before  I  go  to 
pieces." 

"  My  good  friend,"  rejoined  I,  "  had  you  been  left  to  the 
circulation  of  which  you  speak,  you  would  long  ere  this  have 
been  no  more.  To  judge  from  your  physiognomy,  you  are 
now  well  stricken  in  years  ;  very  few  of  your  contemporaries 
can  be  at  present  in  existence  ;  and  those  few  owe  iheir  lon- 
gevity to  being  immured  like  yourself  in  old  libraries  ;  which, 
suffer  me  to  add,  instead  of  likening  to  harems,  you  might 
more  properly  and  gratefully  have  compared  to  those  infirm- 
aries attached  to  religious  establishments,  for  the  benefit  ot 
the  old  and  decrepid,  and  where,  by  quiet  fostering  and  na 


^32  WORKS  OF  WASH mG TON  IRVING. 

employment,  they  often  endure  to  an  amazingly  good-for-nothK 
ing  old  age.  You  talk  of  your  contemporaries  as  it  in  cir- 
culation— where  do  we  meet  with  their  works  ? — what  do  we- 
hear  of  Robert  Groteste  of  Lincoln  ?  No  one  could  have 
toiled,  harder  than  he  for  immortality.  He  is  said  to  have 
written  nearly  two  hundred  volumes.  He  built,  as  it  were, 
a  pyramid  of  books  to  perpetuate  his  name  :  but,  alas !  the 
pyramid  has  long  since  fallen,  and  only  a  few  fragments  are 
scattered  in  various  libraries,  where  they  are  scarcely  dis- 
turbed even  by  the  antiquarian.  What  do  we  hear  of  Giral- 
dus  Cambrensis,  the  historian,  antiquary,  philosopher,  theo- 
logian, and  poet  ?  He  declined  two  bishoprics  that  he  might 
shut  himself  up  and  write  for  posterity ;  but  posterity  never 
inquires  after  his  labors.  What  of  Henry  of  Huntingdon, 
who,  besides  a  learned  history  of  England,  wrote  a  treatise  on 
the  contempt  of  the  world,  which  the  world  has  revenged  by 
forgetting  him What  is  quoted  ot  Joseph  of  Exeter,  styled, 
the  miracle  of  his  age  in  classical  composition  >  Of  his  three 
great  heroic  poems,  one  is  lost  forever,  excepting  a  mere  frag- 
ment ;  the  others  are  known  only  to  a  few  of  the  curious  in; 
literature ;  and  as  to  his  love  verses  and  epigrams,  they  have- 
entirely  disappeared.  What  is  in  current  use  of  John  Wallis, 
the  Franciscan,  who  acquired  the  name  of  the  tree  of  life 
of  William  of  Malmsbury ;  of  Simeon  of  Durham  ;  of  Benedict: 

of  Peterborough  ;  of  John  Hanvill  of  St  Albans  ;  of  " 

Prithee,  friend,"  cried  the  quarto  in  a  testy  tone,  "  how 
old  do  you  think  me  ?  You  are  talking  of  authors  that  lived 
long  before  my  time,  and  wrote  either  in  Latin  or  French,  so 
that  they  in  a  manner  expatriated  themselves,  and  deserved  ^ 
to  be  forgotten  but  I,  sir,  was  ushered  into  the  world  from 
the  press  of  the  renowned  Wynkyn  de  Worde.    I  was  written 

*  In  Latin  and  French  hath  many  soueraine  wittes  had  great  delyte  ta 
cndyte,  and  have  many  noble  things  f  ulfilde,  but  certes  there  ben  some  that 
lipeaken  their  poisye  in  French,  of  which  speche  the  Frenchmen  have 
good  a  f antasye  as  we  have  in  hearing  of  Frenchmen's  Engh'she. 

Chaucer's  Testament  of  Lev^* 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  133 


In  my  own  native  tongue,  at  a  time  when  the  language  had 
become  fixed ;  and,  indeed,  I  was  considered  a  model  of  pure 
and  elegant  English.'' 

[I  should  observe  that  these  remarks  were  couched  in 
such  intolerably  antiquated  terms,  that  I  have  had  infinite 
difficulty  in  rendering  them  into  modern  phraseology.] 

"  I  cry  you  mercy,''  said  I,  "  for  mistaking  your  age ; 
^but  it  matters  little ;  almost  all  the  writers  of  your  time  have 
likewise  passed  into  forgetfulness ;  and  De  Worde's  publi- 
cations are  mere  literary  rarities  among  book-collectors.  The 
purity  and  stability  of  language,  too,  on  which  you  found  your 
claims  to  perpetuity,  have  been  the  fallacious  dependence  of 
-authors  of  every  age,  even  back  to  the  times  of  the  worthy 
Robert  of  Gloucester,  who  wrote  his  history  in  rhymes  of 
mongrel  Saxon.^  Even  now,  many  talk  of  Spenser's  '  well 
of  pure  English  undefiled,'  as  if  the  language  ever  sprang 
from  a  well  or  fountain-head,  and  was  hot  rather  a  mere  con- 
fluence of  various  tongues  perpetually  subject  to  changes  and 
intermixtures.  It  is  this  which  has  m.ade  English  literature 
so  extremely  mutable,  and  the  reputation  built  upon  it  so 
•fleeting.  Unless  thought  can  be  committed  to  something 
more  penrianent  and  unchangeable  than  such  a  medium,  even 
thought  must  share  the  fate  of  everything  else,  and  fall  into 
decay.  This  should  serve  as  a  check  upon  the  vanity  and  ex* 
ultation  of  the  most  popular  writer.  He  finds  the  language 
in  which  he  has  embarked  his  fame  gradually  altering,  and 
subject  the  dilapidations  of  time  and  the  caprice  of  fashion. 
He  looks  back,  and  beholds  the  early  authors  of  his  country^ 
once  the  favorites  of  their  day,  supplanted  by  modern  writers  \ 

*  Holinshed,  in  his  Chronicle,  observes,  afterwards,  also^  by  diligenV 
travell  of  Geffry  Chaucer  and  John  Gowrie,  in  the  time  of  Richard  the. 
Second,  and  after  them  of  John  Scogan  and  John  Lydgate,  monke  of  Berrie, 
our  said  toong  was  brought  to  an  excellenr  passe,  notwithstanding  that  it 
never  came  unto  the  type  of  perfection  until  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth, 
wherein  John  Jewell,  Bishop  of  Sarum,  John  Fox,  and  sundrie  leamecl 
and  excellent  writers,  have  fully  accomplished  the  ornatur^  of  the  sam** 
to  their  great  praise  and  immortal  commendation." 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


a  few  short  ages  have  covered  them  with  obscurity,  and  their 
merits  can  only  be  rehshed  by  the  quaint  taste  of  the  bookworm. 
And  such,  he  anticipates,  will  be  the  fate  of  his  own  work, which, 
however  it  may  be  admired  in  its  day,  and  help  as  a  model 
of  purity,  will,  in  the  course  of  years,  grow  antiquated  and  Db- 
solete,  until  it  shall  become  almost  as  unintelligible  in  its  na- 
tive land  as  an  Egyptian  obelisk,  or  one  of  those  Runic  in- 
scriptions, said  to  exist  in  the  deserts  of  Tartary.  I  declare,"' 
added  I,  with  some  emotion,  when  I  contemplate  a  modern^ 
library,  filled  with  new  works  in  all  the  bravery  of  rich  gilding; 
and  binding,  I  feel  disposed  to  sit  down  and  weep  ;  like  the 
good  Xerxes,  when  he  surveyed  his  army,  pranked  out  in  all: 
the  splendor  of  military  array,  and  reflected  that  in  one  hun- 
dred years  not  one  of  them  would  be  in  existence  !  " 

"Ah,"  said  the  little  quarto,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  "  I  see 
how  it  is  ;  these  modern  scribblers  have  superseded  all  the 
good  old  authors.  I  suppose  nothing  is  read  nowadays  but 
Sir  Philip  Sidney's  Arcadia,  Sackville's  stately  plays  and  Mir- 
ror for  Magistrates,  or  the  fine-spun  euphuisms  of  the  *  unpar- 
alleled JohnLyly/" 

"There  you  are  again  mistaken,"  said  I;  "the  writers 
whom  you  suppose  in  vogue,  because  they  happened  to  be  sa 
when  you  were  last  in  circulation,  have  long  since  had  their 
day.  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  Arcadia,  the  immortality  of  which 
was  so  fondly  predicted  by  his  admirers,*  and  which,  in  truths 
was  full  of  noble  thoughts,  delicate  images,  and  graceful  turns 
of  language,  is  now  scarcely  ever  mentioned.  Sackville  has 
strutted  into  obscurity;  and  even  Lyly, though  his  writings 
were  once  the  delight  of  a  court,  and  apparently  perpetuated 

*"  Live  ever  sweete  booke  ;  the  simple  image  of  his  gentle  witt,  and 
the  golden  pillar  of  his  noble  courage ;  and  ever  notify  unto  the  world 
that  thy  writer  was  the  secretary  of  eloquence,  the  breath  of  the  muses,  the 
honey  bee  of  the  daintyest  flowers  of  witt  and  arte,  the  pith  of  morale  and 
the  intellectual  virtues,  the  arme  of  Bellona  in  the  field,  the  tongue  ai 
Suada  in  the  chamber,  the  spirite  of  Practise  in  esse,  and  the  paragon  of 
excellency  in  print." 

Harvey's  Pierce's  Supererogation. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON  GEATT,  135 

by  a  proverb,  is  now  scarcely  known  even  by  name.  A  whole 
crowd  of  authors  who  wrote  and  wrangled  at  the  time,  have 
likewise  gone  down  with  all  their  writings  and  their  contro- 
versies. Wave  after  wave  of  succeeding  literature  has  rolled 
over  them,  until  they  are  buried  so  deep,  that  it  is  only  now  and 
then  that  some  industrious  diver  after  fragments  of  antiquity 
brings  up  a  specimen  for  the  gratification  of  the  curious. 

"  For  my  part,"  I  continued,  I  consider  this  mutability 
of  language  a  wise  precaution  of  Providence  for  the  benefit 
of  the  world  at  large,  and  of  authors  in  particular.  To  reason 
from  analogy  ;  we  daily  behold  the  varied  and  beautiful  tribes 
of  vegetables  springing  up,  flourishing,  adorning  the  fields  for 
a  short  time,  and  then  fading  into  dust,  to  make  way  for  their 
successors.  Were  not  this  the  case,  the  fecundity  of  nature 
would  be  a  grievance  instead  of  a  blessing  ;  the  earth  would 
groan  with  rank  and  excessive  vegetation,  and  its  surface  be- 
come a  tangled  wilderness.  In  like  manner,  the  v/orks  of 
genius  and  learning  decline  and  make  way  for  subsequent  pro- 
ductions. Language  gradually  varies,  and  with  it  fade  away 
the  writings  of  authors  who  have  flourished  their  allotted 
time :  otherwise  the  creative  powers  of  genius  would  over- 
stock the  world,  and  the  mind  would  be  completely  bewildered 
in  the  endless  mazes  of  literature.  Formerly  there  were  some 
restraints  on  this  excessive  multiplication  :  works  had  to  be 
transcribed  by  hand,  which  was  a  slow  and  laborious  opera- 
tion ;  they  were  written  either  on  parchment,  which  was  ex- 
pensive, so  that  one  work  was  often  erased  to  make  way  for 
another ;  or  on  papyrus,  which  was  fragile  and  extremely 
perishable.  Authorship  was  a  limited  and  unprofitable  craft, 
pursued  chiefly  by  monks  in  the  leisure  and  solitude  of  their 
cloisters.  The  accumulation  of  manuscripts  was  slow  and 
costly,  and  confined  almost  entirely  to  monasteries.  To  these 
circumstances  it  may,  in  some  measure,  be  owing  that  we 
have  not  been  inundated  by  the  intellect  of  antiquity ;  that 
the  fountains  of  thought  have  not  been  broken  up,  and  modern 
genius  drowned  in  the  deluge.    But  the  inventions  of  paper 


136  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

and  the  press  have  put  an  end  to  all  these  restraints :  thty 
have  made  every  one  a  writer,  and  enabled  every  mind  to 
pour  itself  into  print,  and  diffuse  itself  over  the  whole  intel- 
lectual world.  The  consequences  are  alarming.  The  stream 
of  literature  has  swollen  into  a  torrent — augmented  into  a 
river — expanded  into  a  sea.  A  few  centuries  since,  five  or 
six  hundred  manuscripts  constituted  a  great  library  ;  but  what 
would  you  say  to  libraries,  such  as  actually  exist,  containing 
three  or  four  hundred  thousand  volumes  ;  legions  of  authors 
at  the  same  time  busy  ;  and  a  press  going  on  with  fearfully  in* 
creasing  activity,  to  double  and  quadruple  the  number  ?  Un* 
less  some  unforeseen  mortality  should  break  out  among  the 
progeny  of  the  Muse,  now  that  she  has  become  so  prolific,  I 
tremble  for  posterity.  I  fear  the  mere  fluctuation  of  language 
will  not  be  sufficient.  Criticism  may  do  much ;  it  increases 
with  the  increase  of  literature,  and  resembles  one  of  those 
solitary  checks  on  population  spoken  of  by  economists.  All 
possible  encouragement,  therefore,  should  be  given  to  the 
growth  of  critics,  good  or  bad.  But  I  fear  all  will  be  in  vain  ; 
let  criticism  do  what  it  may,  writers  will  write  printers  will  print, 
and  the  world  will  inevitably  be  overstocked  with  good  books. 
It  will  soon  be  the  employment  of  a  lifetime  merely  to  learn 
their  names.  Many  a  man  of  passable  information  at  the 
present  day  reads  scarcely  anything  but  reviews,  and  before 
long  a  man  of  erudition  will  be  little  better  than  a  mere  walk- 
ing catalogue.'* 

"  My  very  good  sir,'*  said  the  little  quarto,  yawning  most 
drearily  in  my  face,  "  excuse  my  interrupting  you,  but  I 
perceive  you  are  rather  given  to  prose.  I  would  ask  the 
fate  of  an  author  who  was  making  some  noise  just  as  I  left 
the  world.  His  reputation,  however,  was  considered  quite 
temporary.  The  learned  shook  their  heads  at  him,  for  he 
was  a  poor,  half-educated  varlet,  that  knew  little  of  Latin,  and 
nothing  of  Greek,  and  had  been  obliged  to  run  the  country 
for  deer-stealing.  I  think  his  name  was  Shakspeare.  I  pre- 
sume he  soon  sunk  into  oblivion.*' 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  13^ 

"  On  the  contrary/'  said  I,  "it  is  owing  to  that  very  man 
that  the  literature  of  his  period  has  experienced  a  duration 
beyond  the  ordinary  term  of  English  literature.  There  arise 
authors  now  and  then,  who  seem  proof  against  the  mutability 
of  language,  because  they  have  rooted  themselves  in  the  un- 
changing principles  of  human  nature.  They  are  like  gigantic 
trees  that  we  sometimes  see  on  the  banks  of  a  stream,  which, 
by  their  vast  and  deep  roots,  penetrating  though  the  mere 
surface,  and  laying  hold  on  the  very  foundations  of  the  earth, 
preserve  the  soil  around  them  from  being  swept  away  by  the 
overflowing  current,  and  hold  up  many  a  neighboring  plant, 
and,  perhaps,  worthless  weed,  to  perpetuity.  Such  is  the 
case  with  Shakspeare,  whom  we  behold,  defying  the  encroach- 
ments of  time,  retaining  in  modern  use  the  language  and 
literature  of  his  day,  and  giving  duration  to  many  an  indiffer 
ent  author  merely  from  having  flourished  in  his  vicinity. 
But  even  he,  I  grieve  to  say,  is  gradually  assuming  the  tint 
of  age,  and  his  whole  form  is  overrun  by  a  profusion  of  com- 
mentators, who,  like  clambering  vines  and  creepers,  almost 
bury  the  noble  plant  that  upholds  them." 

Here  the  little  quarto  began  to  heave  his  sides  and 
chuckle,  until  at  length  he  broke  out  into  a  plethoric  fit  of 
laughter  that  had  well  nigh  choked  him  by  reason  of  his  ex- 
cessive corpulency.  "  Mighty  well ! cried  he,  as  soon  as  he 
could  recover  breath,  "  mighty  well  !  and  so  you  would  per- 
suade me  that  the  literature  of  an  age  is  to  be  perpetuated 
by  a  vagabond  deer-steaier !  by  a  man  v/ithout  learning  Ibv 
a  poet !  forsooth — a  poet !  "  And  here  he  wheezed  forth 
another  fit  of  laughter. 

I  confess  that  I  felt  somewhat  nettled  at  this  rudeness, 
which,  however,  I  pardoned  on  account  of  his  having  flour- 
ished in  a  less  polished  age.  I  determined,  nevertheless,  not 
to  give  up  my  point. 

"  Yes,"  resumed  I  positively,  "  a  poet  ;  for  of  all  writers 
he  has  the  best  chance  for  immortality.  Others  may  write 
from  the  head,  but  he  writes  from  the  hean,  and  the  heart 


138  WORKS  OF  Washington  irving, 

will  always  understand  him,  He  is  the  faithful  portrayer  of 
Nature,  whose  features  are  always  the  same,  and  always  inter- 
esting. Prose  writers  are  voluminous  and  unwieldy;  their 
pages  crowded  with  commonplaces,  and  their  thoughts  ex- 
panded into  tediousness.  But  with  the  true  poet  every 
thing  is  terse,  touching,  or  brilliant.  He  gives  the  choicest/ 
thoughts  in  the  choicest  language.  He  illustrates  them  by 
everything  that  he  sees  most  striking  in  nature  and  art.  He 
enriches  them  by  pictures  of  human  life,  such  as  it  is  passing 
before  him.  His  writings,  therefore,  contain  the  spirit,  the 
aroma,  if  I  may  use  the  phrase,  of  the  age  in  which  he  lives. 
They  are  caskets  which  inclose  within  a  small  compass  the 
wealth  of  the  language— its  family  jewels,  which  are  thus 
transmitted  in  a  portable  form  to  posterity.  The  setting  may 
occasionally  be  antiquated,  and  require  now  and  then  to  be 
renewed,  as  in  the  case  of  Chaucer ;  but  the  brilliancy  and 
intrinsic  value  of  the  gems  continue  unaltered.  Cast  a  look 
back  over  the  long  reach  of  literary  history.  What  vast  valleys 
of  dulness,  filled  with  monkish  legends  and  academical  con- 
troversies !  What  bogs  of  theological  speculations  !  What 
dreary  wastes  of  metaphysics !  Here  and  there  only  do  we 
behold  the  heaven-illumined  bards,  elevated  like  beacons  on 
their  widely-separated  heights,  to  transmit  the  pure  light  of 
poetical  intelligence  from  age  to  age."  ^ 

I  was  just  about  to  launch  forth  into  eulogiums  upon  the 
poets  of  the  day,  when  the  sudden  opening  of  the  door 
caused  me  to  turn  my  head.    It  was  the  verger,  who  came  to 

Thorow  earth,  and  waters  deepe. 

The  pen  by  skill  doth  passe  : 
And  featly  nyps  the  worldes  abuse. 

And  shoes  us  in  a  glasse. 
The  vertu  and  ihe  vice 

Of  every  wight  alyve  ; 
The  honey  combe  that  bee  doth  make 

Is  not  so  sweet  in  hyve, 
As  are  the  golden  leves 

That  drops  from  poet*s  head 
Which  doth  surmount  our  common  talke, 
iarre  as  dross  doth  lead. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GIljFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  x^fy 

inform  me  that  ft  was  time  to  close  the  library.  I  sought  ro 
have  a  parting  word  with  the  quarto,  but  the  worthy  little 
tome  was  silent ;  the  clasps  were  closed  ;  and  it  looked  per- 
fectly unconscious  of  all  that  had  passed.  I  have  been  to 
the  library  two  or  three  times  since,  and  have  endeavored  to 
draw  it  into  further  conversation,  but  in  vain  :  and  whether 
all  this  rambling  colloquy  actually  took  place,  or  whether  it 
was  another  of  those  odd  day-dreams  to  which  I  am  subject^ 
^  have  never,  to  this  moment,  been  abie  to  aiscover. 


kVO/^JTS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING^ 


RURAL  FUNERALS. 

Here's  a  few  flowers !  but  about  midnight  more 
jvne  herbs  that  have  on  them  cold  dew  o*  the  nigHt 

Are  strewings  fitt'st  for  graves  

You  were  as  flowers  now  withered:  even  so 
These  herb'lets  shall,  which  we  upon  you  strow. 

Cymbeline. 

Among  the  beautiful  and  simple-hearted  customs  of  rural 
life  which  still  linger  in  some  parts  of  England,  are  those  of 
Strewing  flowers  before  the  funerals  and  planting  them  at  the 
graves  of  departed  friends.  There,  it  is  said,  are  the  remains 
of  some  of  the  rites  of  the  primitive  church  ;  but  they  are  of 
still  higher  antiquity,  having  been  observed  among  the 
Greeks  and  Romans,  and  frequently  mentioned  by  their 
writers,  and  were,  no  doubt,  the  spontaneous  tributes  of  un- 
lettered affection,  originating  long  before  art  had  tasked  it- 
self to  modulate  sorrow  into  song,  or  story  it  on  the  monu- 
ment. They  are  now  only  to  be  met  with  in  the  most  dis- 
tant and  retired  places  of  the  kingdom,  where  fashion  and 
innovation  have  not  been  able  to  throng  in,  and  trample  out 
all  the  curious  and  interesting  traces  of  the  olden  time. 

In  Glamorganshire,  we  are  told,  the  bed  whereon  the 
corpse  lies  is  covered  with  flowers,  a  custom  alluded  to  in  one 
of  the  wild  and  plaintive  ditties  of  Ophelia  : 

White  his  shroud  as  the  mountain  snow. 

Larded  all  with  sweet  flowers  ; 
Which  be-wept  to  the  grave  did  go. 

With  true  love  showers.* 

There  is  also  a  most  delicate  and  beautiful  rite  observed 
in  some  of  the  remote  villages  of  the  south,  at  the  funeral  of 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  141 

a  female  who  has  died  young  and  unmarried.  A  chaplet  of 
white  flowers  is  borne  before  the  corpse  by  a  young  girl, 
nearest  in  age,  size,  and  resemblance,  and  is  afterwards  hung 
up  in  the  church  over  the  accustomed  seat  of  the  deceased. 
These  chaplets  are  sometimes  made  of  white  paper,  in  im- 
itation of  flowers,  and  inside  of  them  is  generally  a  pair  of 
white  gloves.  They  are  intended  as  emblems  of  the  purity 
of  the  deceased,  and  the  crown  of  glory  which  she  has  received 
in  heaven. 

In  some  parts  of  the  country,  also,  the  dead  are  carried 
to  the  grave  with  the  singing  of  psalms  and  hymns  ;  a  kind  of 
triumph,  "  to  show,"  says  Bourne,  "  that  they  have  finished 
their  course  with  joy,  and  are  become  conquerors."  This,. 
I  am  informed,  is  observed  in  some  of  the  northern  counties,, 
particularly  in  Northumberland,  and  it  has  a  pleasing,  though 
melancholy  effect,  to  hear,  of  a  still  evening,  in  some  lonely 
country  scene,  the  mournful  melody  of  a  funeral  dirge 
swelling  from  a  distance  and  to  see  the  train  slowly  moving 
along  the  landscape. 

Thus,  thus,  and  thus,  we  compass  round 
Thy  harmless  and  unhaunted  ground. 
And  as  we  sing  thy  dirge,  we  will 

TheDaffodill  . 
And  other  flowers  lay  upon 
The  altar  of  our  love,  thy  stone. 

Herrick. 

There  is  also  a  solemn  respect  paid  by  the  traveller  to  the- 
passing  funeral,  in  these  sequestered  places ;  for  such  spec- 
tacles, occurring  among  the  quiet  abodes  of  Nature,  sink 
deep  into  the  soul.  As  the  mourning  train  approaches,  he 
pauses,  uncovered,  to  let  it  go  by ;  he  then  follows  silently 
in  the  rear ;  sometimes  quite  to  the  grave,  at  other  times  for 
a  few  hundred  yards,  and  having  paid  this  tribute  of  respect 
to  the  deceased,  turns  and  resumes  his  journey. 

The  rich  vien  of  melancholy  which  runs  through  the 
English  character,  and  gives  it  some  of  its  most  touching 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON-  IRVING. 


and  ennobling  graces,  is  finely  evidenced  in  these  pathetic 
customs,  and  in  the  solicitude  shown  by  the  common  people 
for  an  honored  and  a  peaceful  grave.  The  humblest  peasant, 
whatever  may  be  his  lowly  lot  while  living,  is  anxious  that 
some  little  respect  may  be  paid  to  his  remains.  Sir  Thomas 
Overbury,  describing  the  ^'faire  and  happy  milkmaid,"  ob- 
serves, *^  thus  lives  she,  and  all  her  care  is,  that  she  may  die 
in  the  spring  time,  to  have  store  of  flowers  stucke  upon  her 
winding-sheet.''  The  poets,  too,  who  always  breathe  the 
feeling  of  a  nation,  continually  advert  to  this  fond  solicitude 
about  the  grave.  In  The  Maid's  Tragedy/*  by  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher,  there  is  a  beautiful  instance  of  the  kind  de- 
scribing the  capricious  melancholy  of  a  broken-hearted  girl. 

When  she  sees  a  bank 
Stuck  full  of  flowers,  she,  with  a  sigh,  will  teli 
Her  servants,  what  a  pretty  place  it  were 
To  bury  lovers  in  ;  and  made  her  maids 
Bluck  'em,  and  strew  her  over  like  a  corse. 

The  custom  of  decorating  graves  was  once  universally 
prevalent :  osiers  were  carefully  bent  over  them  to  keep 
the  turf  uninjured,  and  about  them  were  planted  evergreens 
and  flowers.  We  adorn  their  graves,"  says  Evelyn,  in  his 
Sylva,  "with  flowers  and  redolent  plants,  just  emblems  of  the 
life  of  man,  which  has  been  compared  in  Holy  Scriptures  to 
those  fading  beauties,  whose  roots  being  buried  in  dishonor, 
rise  again  in  glory."  This  usage  has  now  become  extremely 
rare  in  England  ;  but  it  may  still  be  met  with  in  the  church- 
yards of  retired  villages,  among  the  Welsh  mountains  ;  and  ] 
recollect  an  instance  of  it  at  the  small  town  of  Ruthven, 
which  lies  at  the  head  of  the  beautiful  vale  of  Clewyd.  I 
have  been  told  also  by  a  friend,  who  was  present  at  the  funeral 
of  a  young  girl  in  Glamorganshire,  that  the  female  attendants 
had  their  aprons  full  of  flowers,  which,  as  soon  as  the  body  was 
interred,  they  stuck  about  the  grave. 

He  noticed  several  graves  which  had  been  decorated  in 
the  same  manner.    As  the  flowers  had  been  merely  stuck  io 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT. 

the  ground,  and  not  planted,  they  had  soon  withered,  and 
might  be  seen  in  various  states  of  decay  ;  some  drooping, 
others  quite  perished.  They  were  afterwards  to  be  sup- 
planted by  holly,  rosemary,  and  .others  evergreens ;  which  on 
some  graves  had  grown  to  great  luxuriance,  and  overshadowed 
the  tombstones. 

There  was  formerly  a  melancholy  fancifulness  in  the  ar- 
rangement of  these  rustic  offerings,  that  had  something  in  it 
truly  poetical.  The  rose  was  sometimes  blended  with  the 
lily,  to  form  a  general  emblem  of  frail  mortality.  "  This  sweet 
flower,"  said  Evelyn,  borne  on  a  branch  set  with  thorns, 
and  accompanied  with  the  lily,  are  natural  hieroglyphics  o£ 
our  fugitive,  umbratile,  anxious,  and  transitory  life,  which, 
making  so  fair  a  show  for  a  time,  is  not  yet  without  its  thorns 
and  crosses."  The  nature  and  color  of  the  flowers,  and  of  the 
ribbons  with  which  they  were  tied,  had  often  a  particular 
reference  to  the  qualities  or  story  of  the  deceased,  or  were 
expressive  of  the  feelings  of  the  mourner.  In  an  old  poem, 
entitled  Corydon's  Doleful  Knell,"  a  lover  specifies  tb^ 
decorations  he  intends  to  use  : 

A  garland  shall  be  framed 

By  Art  and  Nature's  skill. 
Of  sundry-colored  flowers, 

In  token  of  good  will. 

And  sii-ndiy-colored  ribbons 

On  it  I  will  bestow  ; 
But  chiefly  blacke  and  yellow© 

With  her  to  grave  shall  go. 

I'll  deck  her  tomb  with  flowers 

The  rarest  ever  seen  ; 
And  with  my  tears  as  showers 

ril  keep  them  fresh  and  green. 

The  white  rose,  we  are  told,  was  planted  at  the  grave  of  a 
idrp-in  ;  her  chaplet  was  tied  with  white  ribbons,  in  token  of. 
li«K  spotless  innocence ;  though  sometimes  black  ribbo!>$^ 
^ere  intermingled,  to  bespeak  the  grief  of  the  survivors.  Thff 


T44 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 


red  rose  was  occasionally  used,  in  remembrance  of  such  zs- 
had  been  remarkable  for  benevolence  ;  but  roses  in  general 
were  appropriated  to  the  graves  of  lovers.  Evelyn  tells  us 
that  the  custom  was  not  altogether  extinct  in  his  time,  near 
his  dwelling  in  the  county  of  Surrey,  "  where  the  maidens 
yearly  planted  and  decked  the  graves  of  their  defunct  sweet- 
hearts with  rose-bushes.'^  And  Camden  likewise  remarks,  in 
his  Brittania :  "  Here  is  also  a  certain  custom,  observed  time 
out  of  mind,  of  planting  rose-trees  upon  the  graves,  especially 
Oy  the  young  men  and  maids  who  have  lost  their  loves  j  so 
xhat  this  churchyard  is  now  full  of  them." 

When  the  deceased  had  been  unhappy  in  their  loves, 
emblems  of  a  more  gloomy  character  were  used,  such  as  the 
yew  and  cypress  ;  and  if  flowers  were  strewn,  they  were  of 
the  most  melancholy  colors.  Thus,  in  poems  by  Thomas- 
Stanley,  Esq.  (published  in  1651),  is  the  following  stanza  : 

Yet  strew 
Upon  my  dismall  grave 
Such  offerings  as  you  have, 

Forsaken  cypresse  and  yewe  ; 
For  kinder  flowers  can  take  no  birth 
Or  growth  from  such  unhappy  earth. 

In  "The  Maid's  Tragedy,"  a  pathetic  little  air  is  intro- 
duced, illustrative  of  this  mode  of  decorating  the  funerals  ot 
females  who  have  been  disappointed  in  love. 

Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse 

Of  the  dismal  yew, 
Maidens  willow  branches  wear. 

Say  I  died  true. 

My  love  was  false,  but  I  was  firm, 

From  my  hour  of  birth, 
Upon  my  buried  body  lie 

Lightly,  gentle  earth.  ^ 

•fhe  natural  effect  of  sorrow  over  the  dead  is  to  refine 
l^ievate  the  mind  ;  and  we  have  a  proof  of  it  in  the  purity  of  sen- 
timent, and  the  unaffected  elegance  of  thought,  which  pervaaea 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  145 

iJie  whole  of  these  funeral  observances.  Thus,  it  was  an 
especial  precaution  that  none  but  sweet-scented  evergreens 
and  flowers  should  be  employed.  The  intention  seems  to  have 
been  to  soften  the  horrors  of  the  tomb,  to  beguile  the  mind 
from  brooding  over  the  disgraces  of  perishing  mortality,  and 
to  associate  the  memory  of  the  deceased  with  the  most  deli- 
cate and  beautiful  objects  in  nature.  There  is  a  dismal  pro? 
cess  going  on  in  the  grave,  ere  dust  can  return  to  its  kindred 
dust,  which  the  imagination  shrinks  from  contemplating  j 
and  we  seek  still  to  think  of  the  form  we  have  loved,  with  those 
refined  associations  which  it  awakened  when  blooming  before 
us  in  youth  and  beauty.  Lay  her  i'  the  earth,"  says  Laertes 
of  his  virgin  sister, 

And  from  her  fair  and  unpolluted  flesh 
May  violets  spring. 

Herrick,  also,  in  his  "  Dirge  of  Jephtha,"  pours  forth  a  frat 
grant  flow  of  poetical  thought  and  image,  which  in  a  manner 
embalms  the  dead  in  the  recollections  of  the  living. 

Sleep  in  thy  peace,  thy  bed  of  spice, 

And  make  this  place  all  Paradise  : 

Maj  sweets  grow  here  !  and  smoke  from  hence 

Fat  frankincense. 
Let  balme  and  cassia  send  their  scent 
From  out  thy  maiden  monument. 
***** 

May  ail  shie  maids  at  wonted  hours 

Come  forth  to  strew  thy  tombe  with  flowers  I 

May  virgins,  when  they  come  to  mourn 

Male  incense  burn 
Upon  thine  altar !  then  return 
And  leave  thee  sleeping  in  thy  ui 

I  might  crowd  my  pages  with  extracts  from  the  older  British 
poets,  who  wrote  when  these  rites  were  more  prevalent,  and 
delighted  frequently  to  allude  to  them  ;  but  I  have  already 
quoted  more  than  is  necessary.  I  cannot,  however,  refrain 
from  giving  a  passage  from  Shakspeare,  even  though  it  should 


,46  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 

appear  trite,  which  illustrates  the  emblematical  meaning  orteik 
conveyed  in  these  floral  tributes,  and  at  the  same  time  pos- 
sesses that  magic  of  language  and  appositeness  of  imagery 
for  which  he  stands  pre-eminent. ' 

With  fairest  flowers, 
Whilst  summer  lasts,  and  I  live  here,  Fidele, 
I'D  sweeten  thy  sad  grave ;  thou  shalt  not  lack 
The  flower  that's  like  thy  face,  pale  primrose ;  nor 
The  azured  harebell  like  thy  veins  ;  no,  nor 
The  leaf  of  eglantine ;  whom  not  to  slander, 
Outsweetened  not  thy  breath. 

There  is  certainly  something  more  affecting  in  thes^ 
prompt  and  spontaneous  offerings  of  nature,  than  in  the  most 
costly  monuments  of  art ;  the  hand  strews  the  flower  while 
the  heart  is  warm,  and  the  tear  falls  on  the  grave  as  affection 
is  binding  the  osier  round  the  sod ;  but  pathos  expires  under 
the  slow  labor  of  the  chisel,  and  is  chilled  among  the  cold 
conceits  of  sculptured  marble. 

It  is  greatly  to  be  regretted,  that  a  custom  so  truly  elegant 
and  touching  has  disappeared  from  general  use,  and  exists 
only  in  the  most  remote  and  insignificant  villages.  But  it 
seems  as  if  poetical  custom  always  shuns'  the  walks  of  culti- 
vated society.  In  proportion  as  people  grow  polite,  they  cease 
to  be  poetical.  They  talk  of  poetry,  but  they  have  learnt  to 
check  its  free  impulses,  to  distrust  its  sallying  emotions,  and 
to  supply  its  most  affecting  and  picturesque  usages,  by  studied 
form  and  pompous  ceremonial.  Few  pageants  can  be  more 
stately  and  frigid  than  an  English  funeral  in  town.  It  is  made 
up  of  show  and  gloomy  parade  :  mourning  carriages,  mourning 
horses,  mourning  plumes,  and  hireling  mourners,  who  make 
a  mockery  of  grief.  There  is  a  grave  digged,"  says  Jeremy 
Taylor,  "  and  a  solemn  mourning,  and  a  great  talk  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  when  the  dales  are  finished,  they  shall  be» 
and  they  shall  be  remembered  no  more."  The  associate  in  the 
gay  and  crowded  city  is  soon  forgotten  :  the  hurrying  suclc  s- 
sion  of  new  intimates  and  new  pleasures  effaces  him  from  out 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  VOJV,  GENT.  147 

minds,  and  the  very  scenes  and  circles  in  which  he  moved  are 
incessantly  fluctuating.  But  funerals  in  the  country  are  sol- 
emnly impressive.  The  stroke  of  death  makes  a  wider  space  in 
the  village  circle,  and  is  an  awful  event  in  the  tranquil  uni- 
formity of  rural  life.  The  passing  bell  tolls  its  knell  in  every 
ear ;  it  steals  with  its  pervading  melancholy  over  hill  and 
vale,  and  saddens  all  the  landscape. 

The  fixed  and  unchanging  features  of  the  country^  also, 
perpetuate  the  memory  of  the  friend  with  whom  we  once  en- 
joyed them  ;  who  was  the  companion  of  our  most  retired  walks, 
and  gave  animation  to  every  lonely  scene.  His  idea  is  asso- 
ciated with  every  charm  of  Nature  :  we  hear  his  voice  in  the 
^cho  which  he  once  delighted  to  awaken  ;  his  spirit  haunts 
the  grove  which  he  once  frequented  ;  we  think  of  him  in  the 
wild  upland  solitude,  or  amidst  the  pensive  beauty  of  the 
valley.  In  the  freshness  of  joyous  morning  we  remember  his 
beaming  smiles  and  bounding  gayety  ;  and  when  sober  evening 
returns,  with  its  gathering  shadows  and  subduing  quiet,  we 
call  to  mind  many  a  twilight  hour  of  gentle  talk  and  sweet- 
souled  melancholy. 

Each  lonely  place  shall  him  restore. 

For  him  the  tear  be  duly  shed. 
Beloved,  till  life  can  charm  no  more, 

And  mourn'd  till  pity's  self  be  dead. 

Another  cause  that  perpetuates  the  memory  of  the  deceased 
in  the  country,  is,  that  the  grave  is  more  immediately  in  sight 
of  the  survivors.  They  pass  it  on  their  way  to  prayer ;  it 
meets  their  eyes  when  their  hearts  are  softened  by  the  exercise 
of  devotion  ;  they  linger  about  it  on  the  Sabbath,  when  the 
mind  is  disengaged  from  worldly  cares,  and  most  disposed  to 
turn  aside  from  present  pleasures  and  loves,  and  to  sit  down 
among  the  solemn  mementos  of  the  past.  In  North  Wales, 
the  peasantry  kneel  and  pray  over  the  graves  of  their  deceased 
friends  for  several  Sundays  after  the  interment ;  and  where 
the  tender  rite  of  strewing  and  planting  flowers  is  still  prac- 
tised, it  is  always  renewed  on  Easter,  Whitsuntide,  and  other 
festivals,  when  the  season  brings  the  companion  of  former 


WORKS  OF  WASHING  TON  IRVING. 


festivity  more  vividly  to  mind.  It  is  also  invariably  performed 
by  the  nearest  relatives  and  friends ;  no  menials  nor  hirelings 
are  employed,  and  if  a  neighbor  yields  assistance,  it  would  be 
deemed  an  insult  to  offer  compensation. 

I  have  dwelt  upon  this  beautiful  rural  custom,  because,  as 
it  is  one  of  the  last,  so  is  it  one  of  the  holiest  offices  of  love. 
The  grave  is  the  ordeal  of  true  affection.  It  is  there  that 
the  divine  passion  of  the  soul  manifests  its  superiority  to  the 
instinctive  impulse  of  mere  animal  attachment.  The  latter 
must  be  continually  refreshed  and  kept  alive  by  the  presence 
of  its  object ;  but  the  love  that  is  seated  in  the  soul  can  live 
on  long  remembrance.  The  mere  inclinations  of  sense  lan- 
guish and  decline  with  the  charms  which  excited  them,  and  turn 
with  shuddering  and  disgust  from  the  dismal  precincts  of  the 
tomb ;  but  it  is  thence  that  truly  spiritual  affection  rises  puri- 
fied from  every  sensual  desire,  and  returns,  like  a  holy  flame, 
to  illumine  and  sanctify  the  heart  of  the  survivor. 

The  sorrow  for  the  dead  is  the  only  sorrow  from  which  we 
refuse  to  be  divorced.  Every  other  wound  we  seek  to  heal^ — 
every  other  affliction  to  forget ;  but  this  wound  we  consider  it 
a  duty  to  keep  open — this  affliction  we  cherish  and  brood  over 
in  solitude.  Where  is  the  mother  who  would  willingly  forget 
the  infant  that  perished  like  a  blossom  from  her  arms  though 
every  recollection  is  a  pang  ?  Where  is  the  child  that  would 
willingly  forget  the  most  tender  of  parents,  though  to  re- 
member be  but  to  lament  ?  Who,  even  in  the  hour  of  agony, 
would  forget  the  friend  over  whom  he  mourns  ?  Who,  even 
when  the  tomb  is  closing  upon  the  remains  of  her  he  most 
loved ;  when  he  feels  his  heart,  as  it  were,  crushed  in  the 
closing  of  its  portal ;  would  accept  of  consolation  that  must 
be  bought  by  forgetfulness  ? — No,  the  love  which  survives  the 
tomb  is  one  of  the  noblest  attributes  of  the  soul.  If  it  has  its 
woes,  it  has  likewise  its  delights  ;  and  when  the  overwhelming 
burst  of  grief  ii  calmed  into  the  gentle  tear  of  recollection — ► 
when  the  sudden  anguish  and  the  convulsive  agony  over  the 
present  ruins  of  all  that  we  most  loved,  is  softened  away  into 
pensive  meditation  on  all  that  it  was  in  the  days  of  its  loveli- 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  CENT,  i^g 

-ness — who  would  root  out  such  a  sorrow  frorr  the  heart  ? 
Though  it  may  sometimes  throw  a  passing  cU  ad  over  the 
bright  hour  of  gayety,  or  spread  a  deeper  sadness  )ver  the  hour 
of  gloom  ;  yet  who  would  exchange  it  even  fo  the  song  of 
pleasure,  or  the  burst  of  revelry  ?  No,  there  is  a  voice  from 
the  tomb  sweeter  than  song.  There  is  a  remembrance  of  the 
dead,  to  which  we  turn  even  from  the  charms  of  the  living. 
Oh,  the  grave  ! — the  grave  !— It  buries  every  error — covers 
every  defect — extinguishes  every  resentment !  From  its  peace- 
ful bosom  spring  none  but  fond  regrets  and  tender  recollec- 
tions. Who  can  look  down  upon  the  grave  even  of  an  enemy 
and  not  feel  a  compunctious  throb,  that  he  should  ever  have 
warred  with  the  poor  handful  of  earth  that  lies  mouldering  be- 
fore him  ? 

But  the  grave  of  those  we  loved — what  a  place  for  medita- 
tion !  There  it  is  that  we  call  up  in  long  review  the  whole 
history  of  virtue  and  gentleness,  and  the  thousand  endear- 
ments lavished  upon  us  almost  unheeded  in  the  daily  inter- 
course of  intimacy  ; — there  it  is  that  we  dwell  upon  the  tender- 
ness, the  solemn,  awful  tenderness  of  the  parting  scene.  The 
bed  of  death,  with  all  its  stifled  griefs — its  noiseless  attend- 
ance— its  mute,  watchful  assiduities.  The  last  testimonies  of 
expiring  love  !  The  feeble,  fluttering,  thrilling,  oh !  how 
thrilling  ! — pressure  of  the  hand.  The  last  fond  look  of  the 
glazing  eye,  turning  upon  us  even  from  the  threshold  of  exist- 
ence. The  faint,  faltering  accents,  struggling  in  death  to 
give  one  more  assurance  of  affection  ! 

Ay,  go  to  the  grave  of  buried  love,  and  meditate  !  There 
settle  the  account  with  thy  conscience  for  every  past  benefit 
unrequited,  every  past  endearment  unregarded,  of  that  de- 
parted being,  who  can  never — never — never  return  to  be 
soothed  by  thy  contrition  ! 

If  thou  art  a  child,  and  hast  ever  added  a  sorrow  to  thq 
soul,  or  a  furrow  to  the  silvered  brow  of  an  affectionate  parent; 
— if  thou  art  a  husband,  and  hast  ever  caused  the  fond  bosom 
that  ventured  its  whole  happiness  in  thy  arms,  to  doubt  one- 
moment  of  thy  kindness  or  thy  truth — if  thou  art  a  friend,  and 


Ijo  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

hast  ever  • /ronged,  in  thought,  word  or  deed,  the  spirit  that 
generously  confided  in  thee — if  thou  art  a  lover  and  hast  ever 
given  one  i  nmerited  pang  to  that  true  heart  which  now  lies 
cold  and  st..  1  beneath  th)^  feet ;  then  be  sure  that  every  unkind 
look,  every  ungracious  word,  every  ungentle  action,  will  come 
thronging  back  upon  thy  memory,  and  knocking  dolefully  at 
thy  soul — then  be  sure  that  thou  wilt  lie  down  sorrowing  and 
repentant  on  the  grave,  and  utter  the  unheard  groan,  and  poui 
the  unavailing  tear — more  deep,  more  bitter,  because  unheard 
and  unavailing. 

Then  weave  thy  chaplet  of  flowers,  and  strew  the  beauties 
of  nature  about  the  grave  ;  console  thy  broken  spirit,  if  thou 
canst,  with  these  tender,  yet  futile  tributes  of  regret ; — but 
take  warning  by  the  bitterness  of  this  thy  contrite  affliction 
over  the  dead,  and  henceforth  be  more  faithful  and  affec- 
tionate in  the  discharge  of  thy  duties  to  the  living. 


In  writing  the  preceding  article,  it  was  not  intended  to 
give  a  full  detail  of  the  funeral  customs  of  the  English  peas 
antry,  but  merely  to  furnish  a  few  hints  and  quotations  illus 
trative  of  particular  rites,  to  be  appended,  by  way  of  note,  ta 
another  paper,  which  has  been  withheld.  The  article  swelled 
insensibly  into  its  present  form,  and  this  is  mentioned  as  an 
apology  for  so  brief  and  casual  a  notice  of  these  usages,  after 
they  have  been  amply  and  learnedly  investigated  in  other 
works. 

I  must  observe,  also,  that  I  am  well  aware  that  this  cus- 
tom of  adorning  graves  with  flowers,  prevails  in  other  countries 
besides  England.  Indeed,  in  some  it  is  much  more  general, 
and  is  observed  even  by  the  rich  and  fashionable  ;  but  it  i* 
then  apt  to  lose  its  simplicity,  and  to  degenerate  into  affecta- 
tion. Bright,  in  his  traveh  in  Lower  Hungary,  tells  of  mon- 
uments of  marble,  and  recesses  formed  for  retirement,  wi^h. 
seats  placed  among  bowers  of  green-house  plants ;  and  that 
the  graves  generally  are  covered  with  the  gayest  flowerr  of 
the  season.  He  gives  a  casual  picture  of  final  piety,  which  I 
cannot  but  describe,  for  I  trg**^  '^^     ^  ""^iul  as  it  is  delight- 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  151 

ful  to  illustrate  the  amiable  virtues  of  the  sex.  "When  I  was 
at  Berlin,"  says  he,  "  I  followed  the  celebrated  Iffland  to  the 
grave.  Mingled  with  some  pomp,  you  might  trace  much  real 
feeling.  In  the  midst  of  the  ceremony,  my  attention  was  at- 
tracted by  a  young  woman  who  stood  on  a  mound  of  earthy 
newly  covered  with  turf,  which  she  anxiously  protected  from 
the  feet  of  the  passing  crowd.  It  was  the  tomb  of  her  parent  ; 
and  the  figure  of  this  affectionate  daughter  presented  a  mon- 
ument more  striking  than  the  most  costly  work  of  art." 

I  will  barely  add  an  instance  of  sepulchral  decoration  that  I 
once  met  with  among  the  mountains  of  Switzerland.  It  was  at 
the  village  of  Gersau,  which  stands  on  the  borders  of  the  lake 
of  Luzerne,  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Rigi.  It  was  once  the  cap- 
ital of  a  miniature  republic,  shut  up  between  the  Alps  and  the 
lake,  and  accessible  on  the  land  side  only  by  foot-paths.  The 
whole  force  of  the  republic  did  not  exceed  six  hundred  fight- 
ing men  ;  and  a  few  miles  of  circumference,  scooped  out,  as 
it  were,  from  the  bosom  of  the  mountains,  comprised  its  terri- 
tory. The  village  of  Gersau  seemed  separated  from  the  rest 
of  the  world,  and  retained  the  golden  simplicity  of  a  purer 
age.  It  had  a  small  church,  with  a  burying  ground  adjoining. 
At  the  heads  of  the  graves  were  placed  crosses  of  wood  or 
iron.  On  some  were  affixed  miniatures,  rudely  executed,  but 
evidently  attempts  at  likenesses  of  the  deceased.  On  the 
crosses  were  hung  chaplets  of  flowers,  some  withering,  others 
fresh,  as  if  occasionally  renewed.  I  paused  with  interest  at 
the  scene  ;  I  felt  that  I  was  at  the  source  of  poetical  descrip- 
tion, for  these  were  the  beautiful,  but  unaffected  offerings  of 
the  heart,  which  poets  are  fain  to  record.  In  a  gayer  and 
more  populous  place,  I  should  have  suspected  them  to  have 
been  suggested  by  factitious  sentiment,  derived  from  books ; 
but  the  good  people  of  Gersau  knew  little  of  books  ;  there 
was  not  a  novel  nor  a  love  poem  in  the  village  ;  and  I  question 
whether  any  peasant  of  the  place  dreamt,  while  he  was  twining, 
a  fresh  chaplet  for  the  grave  of  his  mistress,  that  he  was  ful- 
filling one  of  the  most  fanciful  rites  of  poetical  devotion,  and 
that  he  was  practically  a  poet^  ^  ^ 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


THE  INN  KITCHEN. 

Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn  ? 

Falstaff. 

During  a  journey  that  I  once  made  through  the  Nether- 
lands. I  had  arrived  one  evening  at  the  Fomme  a' Or,  \he 
principal  inn  of  a  small  Flemish  village.  It  was  after  the 
hour  of  the  table  d'hote,  so  that  I  was  obliged  to  make  a 
:Solitary  supper  from  the  relics  of  its  ampler  board.  The 
weather  was  chilly  ;  I  was  seated  alone  in  one  end  of  a  great 
gloomy  dining-room,  and  my  repast  being  over,  I  had  the 
prospect  before  me  of  a  long  dull  evening,  without  any  visible 
means  of  enlivening  it.  I  summoned  mine  host,  and  requested 
•something  to  read  ;  he  brought  me  the  whole  literary  stock  of 
his  household,  a  Dutch  family  bible,  an  almanac  in  the  same 
language,  and  a  number  of  old  Paris  newspapers.  As  I  sat 
dozing  over  one  of  the  latter,  reading  old  news  and  stale  criti- 
cisms, my  ear  was  now  and  then  struck  with  bursts  of  laughter 
which  seemed  to  proceed  from  the  kitchen.  Every  one  that 
has  travelled  on  the  Continent  must  know  how  favorite  a 
resort  the  kitchen  of  a  country  inn  is  to  the  middle  and  infe- 
rior order  of  travellers ;  particularly  in  that  equivocal  kind 
of  weather  when  a  fire  becomes  agreeable  toward  evening, 
I  threw  aside  the  newspaper,  and  explored  my  way  to  the 
kitchen,  to  take  a  peep  at  the  group  that  appeared  to  be  so 
merry.  It  was  composed  partly  of  travellers  who  had  arrived 
some  hours  before  in  a  diligence,  and  partly  of  the  usual  atten- 
dants and  hangers  -on  of  inns.  They  were  seated  around  a  great 
burnished  stove,  that  might  have  been  mistaken  for  an  altar, 
at  which  they  were  worshipping.    It  was  covered  with  various 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  153 

kitchen  vessels  of  resplendent  brightness ;  among  which 
steamed  and  hissed  a  huge  copper  tea-kettle.  A  large' lamp 
threw  a  strong  mass  of  light  upon  the  group,  bringing  out  many- 
odd  features  in  strong  relief.  Its  yellow  rays  partially  illu- 
mined the  spacious  kitchen,  dying  duskily  away  into  remote 
corners ;  except  where  they  settled  in  mellow  radiance  on  the 
broad  side  of  a  flitch  of  bacon,  or  were  reflected  back  from 
well-scoured  utensils  that  gleamed  from  the  midst  of  obscurity. 
A  strapping  Flemish  lass,  with  long  golden  pendants  in  her 
ears,  and  a  necklace  witlf  a  golden  heart  suspended  to  it,  was 
presiding  priestess  of  the  temple. 

Many  of  the  company  were  furnished  with  pipes,  and  most 
of  them  with  some  kind  of  evening  potation.  I  found  their 
mirth  was  occasioned  by  anecdotes  which  a  little  swarthy- 
Frenchman,  with  a  dry  weazen  face  and  large  whiskers,  was 
giving  of  his  love  adventures  j  at  the  end  of  each  of  which 
there  was  one  of  those  bursts  of  honest  unceremonious 
laughter,  in  which  a  man  indulges  in  that  temple  of  true  lib- 
erty, an  inn. 

As  I  had  no  better  mode  of  getting  through  a  tedious 
blustering  evening,  I  took  my  seat  near  the  stove,  and  listened 
to  a  variety  of  travellers'  tales,  some  very  extravagant,  and 
most  very  dull.  All  of  them,  however,  have  faded  from  my 
treacherous  memory,  except  one,  which  I  will  endeavor  to 
relate.  I  fear,  however,  it  derived  its  chief  zest  from  the 
manner  in  which  it  was  told,  and  the  peculiar  air  and  appear- 
ance of  the  narrator.  He  was  a  corpulent  old  Swiss,  who  had 
the  look  of  a  veteran  traveller.  He  was  dressed  in  a  tarnished 
green  travelling-jacket,  with  a  broad  belt  round  his  waist,  and 
a  pair  of  overalls  with  buttons  from  the  hips  to  the  ankles. 
He  was  of  a  full,  rubicund  countenance,  with  a  double  chin, 
aquiline  nose,  and  a  pleasant  twinkling  eye.  His  hair  was 
light,  and  curled  from  under  an  old  green  velvet  travelling- 
cap,  stuck  on  one  side  of  his  head.  He  was  interrupted  more 
than  once  by  the  arrival  of  guests,  or  the  remarks  of  his  au- 
ditors ;  and  paused,  now  and  then,  to  replenish  hi-s  pipe  ;  at 


^54 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  TRVING. 


which  times  he  had  generally  a  roguish  leer,  and  a  sly  joke, 
for  the  buxom  kitchen  maid. 

I  wish  my  reader  could  imagine  the  old  fellow  lolling  in  a 
huge  arm-chain  one  arm  a-kimbo,  the  other  holding  a  curi- 
ously twisted  tobacco-pipe,  formed  of  genuine  ecume  de  mer, 
decorated  with  silver  chain  and  silken  tassel — his  head  cocked 
on  one  side,  and  a  whimsical  cut  of  the  eye  occasionally,  as  he 
related  the  following  story ; 


^ETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT,  i^jj 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM. 

A  traveller's  tale.* 

He  that  supper  for  is  dight, 

He  lyes  full  cold,  1  trow,  this  night ! 

Yestreen  to  chamber  I  him  led, 

This  night  Gray-steel  has  made  his  bed  ! 

Sir  Eger,  Sir  Grahame,  and  Sir  Gray-steel. 

On  the  summit  of  one  of  the  heights  of  the  Odenwald,  a 
wild  and  romantic  tract  of  Upper  Germany,  that  lies  not  far 
from  the  confluence  of  the  Maine  and. the  Rhine,  there  stood,, 
many,  many  years  since,  the  Castle  of  the  Baron  Von  Land- 
phort.  It  is  now  quite  fallen  to  decay,  and  almost  buried 
Among  beech  trees  and  dark  firs  j  above  which,  however,  its 
^Id  watch-tower  may  still  be  seen  struggling,  like  the  former 
possessor  I  have  mentioned,  to  carry  a  high  head,  and  look 
down  upon  a  neighboring  country. 

The  Baron  was  a  dry  branch  of  the  great  family  of  Kat- 
/enellenbogen,t  and  inherited  the  relics  of  the  property,  and 
all  the  pride,  of  his  ancestors.  Though  the  warlike  disposi- 
tion of  his  predecessors  had  much  impaired  the  family  pos- 
sessions, yet  the  Baron  still  endeavored  to  keep  up  some  show 

*  The  erudite  reader,  well  versed  in  good-for-nothing  lore,  will  perceive 
4*hat  the  above  Tale  must  have  been  suggested  to  the  old  Swiss  by  a  little 
French  anecdote,  of  a  circumstance  said  to  have  taken  place  in  Paris. 

t  /.  Cat's  Elbow — the  name  of  a  family  of  those  parts,  and  very 
powerful  in  former  times.  The  appellation,  we  are  told,  was  given  in 
compliment  to  a  peerless  dame  of  the  family,  celebrated  for  a  fine  arm. 


156  IVOR  ICS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

of  former  state.  The  times  were  peaceable,  and  Ihe  German 
nobles,  in  general,  had  abandoned  their  inconvenient  old 
castles,  perched  like  eagles'  nests  among  the  mountains,  and 
had  built  more  convenient  residences  in  the  valleys  ;  still  the 
Baron  remained  proudly  drawn  up  in  his  little  fortress,  cher- 
ishing with  hereditary  inveteracy  all  the  old  family  feuds  ;  so 
that  he  was  on  ill  terms  with  some  of  his  nearest  neighbors, 
on  account  of  disputes  that  had  happened  between  their  great- 
great-grandfathers. 

The  Baron  had  but  one  child,  a  daughter  ;  but  Nature, 
when  she  grants  but  one  child,  always  compensates  by  making 
it  a  prodigy  ;  and  so  it  was  with  the  daughter  of  the  Baron. 
All  the  nurses,  gossips,  and  country  cousins,  assured  her  fa- 
ther that  she  had  not  her  equal  for  beauty  in  all  Germany  ; 
and  who  should  know  better  than  they  ?    She  had,  moreover, 
been  brought  up  with  great  care,  under  the  superintendence 
■of  two  maiden  aunts,  who  had  spent  some  years  of  their  early 
life  at  one  of  the  little  German  courts,  and  were  skilled  in  all 
the  branches  of  knowledge  necessary  to  the  education  of  a 
fine  lady.    Under  their  instructions,  she  became  a  miracle  of 
accomplishments.    By  the  time  she  was  eighteen  she  could 
embroider  to  admiration,  and  had  worked  whole  histories  of 
the  saints  in  tapestry,  with  such  strength  of  expression  in  their 
-countenances,  that  they  looked  like  so  many  souls  in  purga- 
tory.   She  could  read  without  great  difficulty,  and  had  spelled 
her  way  through  several  church  legends,  and  almost  all  the 
chivalric  wonders  of  the  Heldenbuch.    She  had  even  made 
considerable  proficiency  in  writing,  could  sign  her  own  name 
without  missing  a  letter,  and  so  legibly,  that  her  aunts  could 
read  it  without  spectacles.    She  excelled  in  making  little  good- 
for-nothing  lady-like  knicknacks  of  all  kinds  ;  was  versed  in 
the  most  abstruse  dancing  of  the  day  ;  played  a  number  of 
airs  on  the  harp  and  guitar  ;  and  knew  all  the  tender  ballads 
of  the  Minnie-lieders  by  heart. 

Her  aunts,  too,  having  been  great  fiirts  and  coquettes  in 
their  younger  days,  were  admirably  calculated  to  be  vigilant 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  VOAT,  GENT.  15^ 

guardians  and  strict  censors  of  the  conduct  of  their  niece  ;  for 
there  is  no  duenna  so  rigidly  prudent,  and  inexorably  decor- 
ous, as  a  superannuated  coquette.  She  was  rarely  suffered 
out  of  their  sight ;  never  went  beyond  the  domains  of  the 
castle,  unless  well  attended,  or  rather  well  watched  ;  had  con- 
tinual lectures  read  to  her  about  strict  decorum  and  implicit 
obedience  ;  and,  as  to  the  men — pah  !  she  was  taught  to  hold 
them  at  such  distance  and  distrust,  that,  unless  properly  au- 
thorized, she  would  not  have  cast  a  glance  upon  the  hand- 
somest cavalier  in  the  world — no,  not  if  he  were  even  dying  at 
her  feet. 

The  good  effects  of  this  system  were  wonderfully  apparent. 
The  young  lady  was  a  pattern  of  docility  and  correctness. 
While  others  were  wasting  their  sweetness  in  the  glare  of  the 
world,  and  liable  to  be  plucked  and  thrown  aside  by  every 
hand,  she  was  coyly  blooming  into  fresh  and  lovely  woman- 
hood under  the  protection  of  those  immaculate  spinsters  like 
a  rose-bud  blushing  forth  among  guardian  thorns.  Her  aunts 
looked  upon  her  with  pride  and  exultation,  and  vaunted  that 
though  all  the  other  young  ladies  in  the  world  might  go  astray, 
yet,  thank  Heaven,  nothing  of  the  kind  could  happen  to  the 
heiress  of  Katzenellenbogen. 

But  however  scantily  the  Baron  Von  Landshort  might  be- 
provided  with  children,  his  household  was  by  no  means  a  small 
one,  for  Providence  had  enriched  him  wdth  abundance  of  poor 
relations.  They,  one  and  all,  possessed  the  affectionate  dis- 
position common  to  humble  relatives  ;  were  wonderfully  at- 
tached to  the  Baron,  and  took  every  possible  occasion  to  come 
in  swarms  and  enliven  the  castle.  All  family  festivals  were 
commemorated  by  these  good  people  at  the  Baron's  expense 
and  when  they  were  filled  with  good  cheer,  they  would  declare 
that  there  was  nothing  on  earth  so  delightful  as  these  family 
meetings,  these  jubilees  of  the  heart 

The  Baron,  though  a  small  man,  had  a  large  soul,  and  it 
swelled  with  satisfaction  at  the  consciousness  of  being  the 
greatest  man  in  the  little  world  about  him.    Ke  loved  to  tell 


158  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

long  Stories  about  the  stark  old  warriors  whose  portraits 
looked  grimly  down  from  the  walls  around,  and  he  found  no 
listeners  equal  to  those  who  fed  at  his  expense.  He  was 
much  given  to  the  marvellous,  and  a  firm  believer  in  all  those 
supernatural  tales  with  which  every  mountain  and  valley  in 
Germany  abounds.  The  faith  of  his  guests  even  exceeded  his 
own  :  they  listened  to  every  tale  of  wonder  with  open  eyes  and 
mouth,  and  never  failed  to  be  astonished,  even  though  repeated 
for  the  hundredth  time.  Thus  lived  the  Baron  Von  Landshort, 
the  oracle  of  his  table,  the  absolute  monarch  of  his  little  ter- 
ritory, and  happy,  above  all  things,  in  the  persuasion  that  he 
was  the  wisest  man  of  the  age. 

At  the  time  of  which  my  story  treats,  there  was  a  great 
family-gathering  at  the  castle,  on  an  affair  of  the  utmost  im- 
portance : — it  was  to  receive  the  destined  bridegroom  of  the 
Baron's  daughter.  A  negotiation  had  been  carried  on  be- 
tween the  father  and  an  old  nobleman  of  Bavaria,  to  unite  the 
dignity  of  their  houses  by  the  marriage  of  their  children.  The 
preliminaries  had  been  conducted  with  proper  punctilio.  The 
young  people  were  betrothed  without  seeing  each  other,  and 
the  time  was  appointed  for  the  marriage  ceremony.  The 
young  Count  Von  Altenburg  had  been  recalled  from  the  army 
for  the  purpose,  and  was  actually  on  his  way  to  the  Baron^s 
to  receive  his  bride.  Missives  had  even  been  received  from 
him,  from  Wurtzburg,  where  he  was  accidentally  detained, 
mentioning  the  day  and  hour  when  he  might  be  expected  to 
arrive. 

The  castle  was  in  a  tumult  of  preparation  to  give  him  a 
suitable  welcome.  The  fair  bride  had  been  decked  out  with 
uncommon  care.  The  two  aunts  had  superintended  her  toilet, 
and  quarrelled  the  whole  morning  about  every  article  of  her 
dress.  The  young  lady  had  taken  advantage  of  their  contest 
to  follow  the  bent  of  her  own  taste  ;  and  fortunately  it  was  a 
good  one.  She  looked  as  lovely  as  youthful  bridegroom  could 
desire  ;  and  the  flutter  of  her  expectation  heightened  the  iua- 
tre,  of  her  charms. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  CENT,  ijq 

The  suffusions  that  mantled  her  face  and  neck,  the  gentle 
{leaving  of  the  bosom,  the  eye  now  and  then  lost  in  reverie, 
all  betrayed  the  soft  tumult  that  was  going  on  in  her  little 
heart.  The  aunts  were  continually  hovering  around  her  ;  for 
maiden  aunts  are  apt  to  take  great  interest  in  affairs  of  this 
nature  :  they  were  giving  her  a  world  of  staid  counsel  how  to 
deport  herself,  what  to  say,  and  in  what  manner  to  receive 
the  expected  lover. 

The  Baron  was  no  less  busied  in  preparations.  He  had, 
in  truth,  nothing  exactly  to  do  ;  but  he  was  naturally  a  fuming, 
bustling  little  man,  and  could  not  remain  passive  when  all 
the  world  was  in  a  hurry.  He  worried  from  top  to  bottom  of 
the  castle,  with  an  air  of  infinite  anxiety,  he  continually  cailea 
the  servants  from  their  work  to  exhort  them  to  be  diligent, 
and  buzzed  about  every  hall  and  chamber,  as  idly  restless 
and  importunate  ^as  a  blue-bottle  fly  of  a  warm  summer's  day. 

In  the  meantime,  the  fatted  calf  had  been  killed ;  the 
forests  had  rung  with  the  clamor  of  the  huntsmen  ;  the 
l^itchen  Vv^as  crowded  with  good  cheer ;  the  cellars  had  yielded 
up  v^^hole  oceans  of  RhehKmin  and  Ferne-wein,  and  even  the 
great  Heidelburgh  tun  had  been  laid  under  contribution. 
Everything  was  ready  to  receive  the  distinguished  guest  with 
Sails  imd  Braus  in  the  true  spirit  of  German  hospitality — but 
the  guest  delayed  to  make  his  appearance.  Hour  rolled 
after  hour.  The  sun  that  had  poured  his  downv/ard  rays 
upon  the  rich  forest  of  the  Odenwald,  now  just  gleamed 
along  the  summits  of  the  mountains.  The  Baron  mounted 
the  highest  tower,  and  strained  his  eyes  in  hopes  of  catching 
a  distant  sight  of  the  Count  and  his  attendants.  Once  he 
thought  he  beheld  them  ;  the  sound  of  horns  came  floating 
from  the  valley,  prolonged  by  the  mountain  echoes  :  a  num- 
ber of  horsemen  were  seen  far  below,  slowly  advancing  along 
the  road  ;  but  when  they  had  nearly  reached  the  foot  of  the 
mountain,  they  suddenly  struck  off  in  a  different  direction 
The  last  ray  of  sunshine  departed — the  bats  began  to  flit 
in  the  twilight — the  road  grew  dimmer  and  dimmer  to  tar 


l6o  WORKS  OF  WASHING  TO.  IRVING. 

view ;  and  nothing  appeared  stirring  in  it,  but  now  and  the» 
a  peasant  lagging  homeward  from  his  labor. 

While  the  old  castle  of  Landshort  was  in  this  state  of 
perplexity,  a  very  interesting  scene  was  transacting  in  a  dif- 
ferent part  of  the  Odenwald. 

The  young  Count  Von  Altenburg  was  tranquilly  pursuing 
his  route  in  that  sober  jog-trot  way  in  v;hich  a  man  travels 
toward  matrimony  when  his  friends  have  taken  all  the  trouble 
and  uncertainty  of  courtship  off  his  hands,  and  a  bride  is 
waiting  for  him,  as  certainly  as  a  dinner,  at  the  end  of  his 
journey.  He  had  encountered  at  Wurtzburg  a  youthful  com- 
panion in  arms,  with  whom  he  had  seen  some  service  on  the 
frontiers ;  Herman  Von  Starkenfaust,  one  of  the  stoutest 
hands  and  worthiest  hearts  of  German  chivalry,  who  was  now 
returning  from  the  army.  His  father's  castle  was  not  far  dis- 
tant from  the  fortress  of  Landshort,  although  a  hereditary 
feud  rendered  the  families  hostile,  and  strangers  to  each 
other. 

In  the  warm-hearted  moment  of  recognition,  the  young- 
friends  related  all  their  past  adventures  and  fortunes,  and  the 
Count  gave  the  whole  history  of  his  intended  nuptials  with,  a 
young  lady  whom  he  had  never  seen,  but  of  whose  charms 
he  had  received  the  most  enrapturing  descriptions. 

As  the  route  of  the  friends  lay  in  the  same  direction,  they 
agreed  to  perform  the  rest  of  their  journey  together ;  and 
that  they  might  do  it  more  leisurely,  set  off  from  Wurtzburg 
at  an  early  hour,  the  Count  having  given  directions  for  his 
retinue  to  follow  and  overtake  him. 

They  beguiled  their  wayfaring  with  recollections  of  theii 
military  scenes  and  adventures ;  but  the  Count  was  apt  to  be 
a  little  tedious,  now  and  then,  about  the  reputed  charms  of 
his  bride,  and  the  felicity  that  awaited  him. 

In  this  wav  tney  had  entered  among  the  mountains  of  the 
Odenwald,  and  were  traversing  one  of  its  most  lonely  and 
thickly  wooded  passes.  It  is  v;ell  known  that  the  forests  of 
Cermany  have  always  been  as  much  infested  with  robbers  as 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  i6r 

its  castles  by  spectres  ;  and,  at  this  time,  the  former  were 
particularly  numerous,  from  the  hordes  of  disbanded  soiaiers 
wandering  about  the  country.  It  will  nut  appear  extraor- 
dinary, therefore,  that  the  cavaliers  were  attacked  by  a  gang 
of  these  stragglers,  in  the  midst  of  the  forest.  They  defenaed 
themselves  with  bravery,  but  were  nearly  overpowered  when 
the  Count's  retinue  arrived  to  their  assistance.  At  sight  of 
them  the  robbers  fled,  but  not  until  the  Count  had  received  a 
mortal  wound.  He  was  slowly  and  carefully  conveyed  back 
to  the  city  of  Wurtzburg,  and  a  friar  summoned  from  aneign- 
boring  convent,  who  was  famous  for  his  skill  in  administering 
to  both  soul  and  body.  But  half  of  his  skill  was  superfluous  , 
the  moments  of  the  unfortunate  Count  were  numbered. 

With  his  dying  breath  he  entreated  his  friend  to  repair 
instantly  to  the  castle  of  Landshort,  and  explain  the  fatal 
cause  of  his  not  keeping  his  appointment  with  his  bride. 
Though  not  the  most  ardent  of  lovers,  he  was  one  of  the  most 
punctilious  of  men,  and  appeared  earnestly  solicitous  that 
this  mission  should  be  speedily  and  courteously  executed. 
"Unless  this  is  done,"  said  he,  "  I  shall  not  sleep  quietly  in 
my  grave  !  "  He  repeated  these  last  words  with  peculiar 
solemnity.  A  request,  at  a  moment  so  impressive,  admitted 
no  hesitation.  Starkenfaust  endeavored  to  soothe  him  to 
calmness;  promised  faithfully  to  execute  his  wish,  and  gave 
him  his  hand  in  solemn  pledge.  The  dying  man  pressed  it 
in  acknowledgment,  but  soon  lapsed  into  delirium — raved 
about  his  bride — his  engagements— his  plighted  word  ;  or- 
dered his  horse,  that  he  might  ride  to  the  castle  of  Landshort, 
and  expired  in  the  fancied  act  of  vaulting  into  the  saddle. 

Starkenfaust  bestowed  a  sigh,  and  a  soldier's  tear  on  the 
untimely  fate  of  his  comrade ;  and  then  pondered  on  the 
awkward  mission  he  had  undertaken.  His  heart  was  heavy, 
and  his  head  perplexed ;  for  he  was  to  present  himself  an  un- 
bidden guest  among  hostile  people,  and  to  damp  their  festivity 
Awith  tidings  fatal  to  their  hopes.  Still  there  were  certain 
ivhisperings  of  curiosity  in  his  bosom  to  see  this  far-famed 


i63 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


beauty  of  Katzenellenbogen,  so  cautiously  shut  up  from  ther 
world  ;  for  he  was  a  passionate  admirer  of  the  sex,  and  there 
was  a  dash  of  eccentricity  and  enterprise  in  his  character, 
that  made  him  fond  of  all  singular  adventure. 

Previous  to  his  departure,  he  made  all  due  arrangements 
with  the  holy  fraternity  of  the  convent  for  the  funeral  solem- 
nities of  his  friend,  who  was  to  be  buried  in  the  cathedral  of 
Wurtzburg,  near  some  of  his  illustrious  relatives  and  the 
mourning  retinue  of  the  Count  took  charge  of  his  remains. 

It  is  now  high  time  that  we  should  return  to  the  ancient 
family  of  Katzenellenbogen,  who  were  impatient  for  their 
guests,  and  still  more  for  their  dinner ;  and  to  the  worthy 
little  Baron,  whom  we  left  airing  himself  on  the  watch-tower. 

Night  closed  in,  but  still  no  guest  arrived.  The  Baron 
descended  from  the  tower  in  despair.  The  banquet,  which 
had  been  delayed  from  hour  to  hour,  could  no  longer  be  post- 
poned. The  meats  were  alre^ady  overdone  ;  the  cook  in  an 
agony ;  and  the  whole  household  had  the  look  of  a  garrison 
that  had  been  reduced  by  famine.  The  Baron  was  obliged 
reluctantly  to  give  orders  for  the  feast  without  the  presence 
of  the  guest.  All  were  seated  at  table,  and  just  on  the  point 
of  commencing,  when  the  sound  of  a  horn  from  without  the 
gate  gave  notice  of  the  approach  of  a  stranger.  Another 
long  blast  filled  the  old  courts  of  the  castle  with  its  echoes, 
and  was  answered  by  the  warder  from  the  walls.  The  Baron 
hastened  to  receive  his  future  son-in-law. 

The  drawbridge  had  been  let  down,  and  the  stranger  was 
before  the  gate.  He  was  a  tall  gallant  cavalier,  mounted  on 
a  black  steed.  His  countenance  was  pale,  but  he  had  a  beam^ 
ing,  romantic  eye,  and  an  air  of  stately  melancholy.  The 
Baron  was  a  little  mortified  that  he  should  have  come  in  this 
simple,  solitary  style.  His  dignity  for  a  moment  was  rufHed^ 
and  he  felt  disposed  to  consider  it  a  want  of  proper  respect 
tor  the  important  occasion,  and  the  important  family  witii 
which  he  was  to  be  connected.  He  pacified  himself,  however, 
«ritlj  the  conclusion  that  it  must  have  been  youthful  impa- 


SICETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  1B3 

tience  which  had  induced  him  thus  to  spur  on  sooner  than  bis 
attendants. 

I  am  sorry,"  said  the  stranger,  *'  to  break  in  upon  you 
thus  unseasonably — " 

Here  the  Baron  interrupted  him  with  a  world  of  compli- 
ments and  greetings  ;  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  prided  himself 
upon  his  courtesy  and  his  eloquence.  The  stranger  attempted, 
once  or  twice,  to  stem  the  torrent  of  words,  but  in  vain  ;  so 
he  bowed  his  head  and  suffered  it  to  flow  on.  Ey  the  time 
the  Baron  had  come  to  a  pause,  they  had  reached  the  inner 
court  of  the  castle  ;  and  the  stranger  was  again  about  to 
speak,  when  he  was  once  more  interrupted  by  the  appearance 
of  the  female  part  of  the  family,  leading  forth  the  shrinking 
and  blushing  bride.  He  gazed  on  her  for  a  moment  as  one 
-entranced ;  it  seemed  as  if  his  whole  soul  beamed  forth  in  the 
gaze,  and  rested  upon  that  lovely  form.  One  of  the  maiden 
aunts  whispered  something  in  her  ear ;  she  made  an  effort 
to  speak  ;  her  moist  blue  eye  was  timidly  raised,  gave  a  shy 
glance  of  inquiry  on  the  stranger,  and  w^as  cast  again 
to  the  ground.  The  words  died  away  ;  but  there  was  a 
-sweet  smile  playing  about  her  lips,  and  a  soft  dimpling  of 
the  cheeky  that  showed  her  glance  had  not  been  unsatisfactory. 
It  was  impossible  for  a  girl  of  the  fond  age  of  eighteen,  highly 
predisposed  for  love  and  matrimony,  not  to  be  pleased  with 
so  gallant  a  cavalier. 

The  iate  hour  at  which  the  guest  had  arrived,  left  no  time 
for  parley.  The  Baron  was  peremptory,  and  deferred  all 
particular  conversation  until  the  morning,  and  led  the  way  to 
^he  untasted  banquet. 

It  w^as  served  up  in  the  great  hall  of  the  castle.  Around 
the  walls  hung  the  hard-favored  i>ortraits  of  the  heroes  of  the 
house  of  K  atzenellenbogen,  and  the  trophies  which  they  had 
gained  in  the  field  and  in  the  chase.  Hacked  croslets,  splin- 
tered jousting  spears,  and  tattered  banners,  were  mingled 
^ith  the  spoils  of  sylvan  warfare  :  the  jaws  of  the  wolf,  and 
TSe  tusks  of  the  boar,  grinned  horribly  ansong  crossbows  aad 


164  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVUSTG. 

battle-axes,  and  a  huge  pair  of  antlers  branched  immediately 
over  the  head  of  the  youthful  bridegroom. 

The  cavalier  took  but  little  notice  of  the  company  or  the 
entertainment.  He  scarcely  tasted  the  banquet,  but  seemed 
absorbed  in  admiration  of  his  bride.  He  conversed  in  a  low 
tone,  that  could  not  be  overheard — for  the  language  of  love 
is  never  loud ;  but  where  is  the  female  ear  so  dull  that  it  can- 
not catch  the  softest  whisper  of  the  lover  ?  There  was  a 
mingled  tenderness  and  gravity  in  his  manner  that  appeared 
to  have  a  powerful  effect  upon  the  young  lady.  Her  color 
came  and  went,  as  she  listened  with  deep  attention.  Now 
and  then  she  made  some  blushing  reply,  and  when  his  eye 
^^as  turned  away,  she  would  steal  a  sidelong  glance  at  his 
romantic  countenance,  and  heave  a  gentle  sigh  of  tender  hap* 
piness.  It  was  evident  that  the  young  couple  were  com- 
pletely enamoured.  The  aunts,  who  were  deeply  versed  ia 
the  mysteries  of  the  heart,  declared  that  they  had  fallen  in 
love  with  each  other  at  first  sight. 

The  feast  went  on  merrily,  or  at  least  noisily,  for  the 
guests  were  all  blessed  with  those  keen  appetites  that  attend 
upon  light  purses  and  mountain  air.  The  Baron  told  his  best 
and  longest  stories,  and  never  had  he  told  them  so  well,  or 
with  such  great  effect.  If  there  was  anything  marvellous^ 
his  auditors  were  lost  in  astonishment :  and  if  anything 
facetious,  they  were  sure  to  laugh  exactly  in  the  right  place. 
The  Baron,  it  is  true,  like  most  great  men,  was  too  dignified 
to  utter  any  joke  but  a  dull  one  ;  it  was  always  enforced,  how- 
ever, by  a  bumper  of  excellent  Hoch-heimer ;  and  even  a  dull 
joke,  at  one's  own  table,  served  up  with  jolly  old  wine,  is 
irresistible.  Many  good  things  were  said  by  poorer  and 
keener  wits,  that  would  not  bear  repeating,  except  on  similar 
occasions;  many  sly  speeches  whispered  in  ladies' ears,  that 
almost  convulsed  them  with  suppressed  laughter ;  and  a  song 
or  two  roared  out  by  a  poor,  but  merry  and  broad-faced 
cousin  of  the  Baron,  that  absolutely  made  the  maiden  aunts 
hold  up  their  fans. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT,  165 

Amidst  all  this  revelry,  the  stranger  guest  maintained  a 
most  singular  and  unseasonable  gravity.  His  countenance 
assumed  a  deeper  cast  of  dejection  as  the  evening  advanced, 
and,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  even  the  Baron's  jokes  seemed 
only  to  render  him  the  more  melancholy.  At  times  he  was 
lost  in  thought,  and  at  times  there  was  a  perturbed  and  rest- 
less wandering  of  the  eye  that  bespoke  a  mind  but  ill  at  ease. 
His  conversation  with  the  bride  became  more  and  more  earn- 
est and  mysterious.  Lowering  clouds  began  to  steal  over 
the  fair  serenity  of  her  brow,  and  tremors  to  run  through  her 
tender  frame. 

A.11  this  could  not  escape  the  notice  of  the  company. 
Their  gayety  was  chilled  by  the  unaccountable  crloom  of  the 
bridegroom  ;  their  spirits  were  infected  ;  whispers  and  glances 
were  interchanged,  accompanied  by  shrugs  and  dubious 
shakes  of  the  head.  The  song  and  the  laugh  grew  less  and 
less  frequent :  there  were  dreary  pauses  in  the  conversation^ 
which  were  at  length  succeeded  by  wild  tales,  and  supernatu- 
ral legends.  One  dismal  story  produced  another  still  more 
dismal,  and  the  Baron  nearly  frightened  some  of  the  ladies 
into  hysterics  with  the  history  of  the  goblin  horseman  that 
carried  away  the  fair  Leonora — a  dreadful,  but  true  story, 
which  has  since  been  put  into  excellent  verse,  and  is  read 
and  believed  by  all  the  world. 

The  bijdegroom  listened  to  this  tale  with  profound  atten- 
tion. He  kept  his  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  the  Baron,  and  as 
the  story  drew  to  a  close,  began  gradually  to  rise  from  his 
seat,  growing  taller  and  taller,  until,  in  the  Baron's  entranced 
eye,  he  seemed  almost  to  tower  into  a  giant.  The  moment 
the  tale  was  finished,  he  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  took  a 
solemn  farewell  of  the  company.  They  were  all  amazement. 
The  Baron  was  perfectly  thunderstruck. 

"  What !  going  to  leave  the  castle  at  midnight  ?  why, 
everything  was  prepared  for  his  reception  ;  a  chamber  was 
leady  for  him  if  he  wished  to  retire." 

The  stranger  shook  his  head  mournfully,  and  mysteriously  i 
^  I  must  lay  my  head  in  a  different  chamber  to-night !  " 


t66 


WO R ICS  OF  WASHINGTON-  IRVING. 


There  was  something  in  this  reply,  and  the  tone  in  which 
it  was  uttered,  that  made  the  Baron's  heart  misgive  him  ;  but 
he  rallied  his  forces,  and  repeated  his  hospitable  entreaties. 
The  stranger  shook  his  head  silently,  but  positively,  at  every 
offer;  and  waving  his  farewell  to  the  company,  stalked  slov/ly 
out  of  the  hall.  The  maiden  aunts  were  absolutely  petrified 
— the  bride  hung  her  head,  and  a  tear  stole  to  her  eye. 

The  Baron  followed  the  stranger  to  the  great  court  of  the 
castle,  where  the  black  charger  stood  pawing  the  earth,  and 
snorting  with  impatience.  When  they  had  reached  the  portal, 
whose  deep  archway  was  dimly  lighted  by  a  cresset,  the 
stranger  paused,  and  addressed  the  Baron  in  a  hollow  tone 
of  voice,  whLxi  the  vaulted  roof  rendered  still  more  sepul- 
chral. Now  that  we  are  alone,"  said  he,  I  will  impart  to 
you  the  reason  of  my  going,  I  have  a  solemn,  an  indispen- 
sable engagement — 

Why,"  said  the  Baron,  "cannot  you  send  some  one  in 
your  place  ? 

It  admits  of  no  substitute — I  must  attend  it  in  person — • 
I  must  away  to  Wurtzburg  cathedral — " 

"Ay,"  said  the  Baron,  plucking  up  spirit,  "but  not  until 
to-morrow — to-morrow  you  shall  take  your  bride  there." 

"  No  !  no  !  "  replied  the  stranger,  with  tenfold  solemnity 
my  engagement  is  with  no  bride — the  worms  !  the  worms 
expect  me !  I  am  a  dead  man — I  have  been  slain  by  robbers 
— my  body  lies  at  Wurtzburg — at  midnight  I  am  to  be  buried 
— the  grave  is  waiting  for  me — I  must  keep  my  appointment !  ^' 

He  sprang  on  his  black  charger,  dashed  over  the  draw- 
bridge, and  the  clattering  of  his  horse's  hoofs  was  lost  in  the 
whistling  of  the  night-blast. 

The  Baron  returned  to  the  hall  in  the  utmost  consterna- 
tion, and  related  what  had  passed.  Two  ladies  fainted  out- 
right ;  others  sickened  at  the  idea  of  having  banqueted  with 
a  spectre.  It  was  the  opinion  of  some,  that  this  might  be  the 
wild  huntsman  famous  in  German  legend.  Some  talked  of 
mountain  sprites,  of  wood-demons,  and  of  other  supernatural 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT. 

beings,  with  which  the  good  people  of  Germany  have  been  sa 
grievously  harassed  since  time  immemorial.  One  of  the  poor 
relations  ventured  to  suggest  that  it  might  be  some  sportive 
evasion  of  the  young  cavalier,  and  that  the  very  gloominess  of 
the  caprice  seemed  to  accord  with  so  melancholy  a  personage. 
This,  however,  drew  on  him  the  indignation  of  the  whole  com- 
pany, and  especially  of  the  Baron,  who  looked  upon  him  as 
little  better  than  an  infidel ;  so  that  he  was  fain  to  abjure  his 
heresy  as  speedily  as  possible,  and  come  into  the  faith  of  the 
true  believers. 

But,  whatever  may  have  been  the  doubts  entertained,  they 
were  completely  put  to  an  end  by  the  arrival,  next  day,  of 
regular  missives,  confirming  the  intelligence  of^  the  young 
Count's  murder,  and  his  interment  in  Wurtzburg  cathedral. 

The  dismay  at  the  castle  may  well  be  imagined.  The 
Baron  shut  himself  up  in  his  chamber.  The  guests  who  had 
come  to  rejoice  with  him,  could  not  think  of  abandoning  him 
in  his  distress.  They  wandered  about  the  courts,  or  collected 
in  groups  in  the  hall,  shaking  their  heads  and  shrugging  their 
shoulders,  at  the  troubles  of  so  good  a  man  ;  and  sat  longer 
than  ever  at  table,  and  ate  and  drank  more  stoutly  than  ever, 
by  way  of  keeping  up  their  spirits.  But  the  situation  of  the 
widowed  bride  was  the  most  pitiable.  To  have  lost  a  husband 
before  she  had  even  embraced  him — and  such  a  husband  !  if 
the  very  spectre  could  be  so  gracious  and  noble,  what  must 
have  been  the  living  man  ?  She  filled  the  house  with  lamenta- 
tions. 

On  the  night  of  the  second  day  of  her  widowhood,  she 
had  retired  to  her  chamber,  accompanied  by  one  of  her  aunts, 
who  insisted  on  sleeping  with  her.  The  aunt,  who  was  one 
of  the  best  tellers  of  ghost  stories  in  all  Germany,  had  just 
been  recounting  one  of  her  longest,  and  had  fallen  asleep  m 
the  very  midst  of  it.  The  chamber  was  remote,  and  over- 
looked a  small  garden.  The  niece  lay  pensively  gazing  at 
the  beams  of  the  rising  moon,  as  they  trembled  on  the  leaves 
of  an  aspen  tree  before  the  lattice.    The  castle  clock  had  just 


t68  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

told  midnight,  when  a  soft  strain  of  music  stole  up  from  the 
garden.  She  rose  hastily  from  her  bed  and  stepped  lightly  to 
the  window.  A  tall  figure  stood  among  the  shadows  of  the 
trees.  As  it  raised  its  head,  a  beam  of  moonlight  fell  upon 
the  countenance.  Heaven  and  earth  !  she  beheld  the  Spectre 
Bridegroom  !  A  loud  shriek  at  that  moment  burst  upon  her 
ear,  and  her  aunt,  who  had  been  awakened  by  the  music,  and 
had  followed  her  silently  to  the  window,  fell  into  her  arms. 
When  she  looked  again,  the  spectre  had  disappeared. 

Of  the  two  females,  the  aunt  now  required  the  most  sooth- 
ing, for  she  was  perfectly  beside  herself  with  terror.  As  to 
the  young  lady,  there  was  something,  even  in  the  spectre  of 
her  lover,  that  seexned  endearing.  There  was  still  the  sem- 
blance of  manly  beauty  ;  and  though  the  shadow  of  a  man  is 
but  little  calculated  to  satisfy  the  affections  of  a  love-sick  girl, 
yet,  where  the  substance  is  not  to  be  had,  even  that  is  con- 
soling. The  aunt  declared  she  would  never  sleep  in  that 
chamber  again  ;  the  niece,  for  once,  was  refractory,  and  de- 
clared as  strongly  that  she  would  sleep  in  no  other  in  the 
castle :  the  consequence  was,  that  she  had  to  sleep  in  it  alone  ; 
but  she  drew  a  promise  from  her  aunt  not  to  relate  the  story 
■of  the  spectre,  lest  she  should  be  denied  the  only  melancholy 
pleasure  left  her  on  earth — that  of  inhabiting  the  chamber 
over  which  the  guardian  shade  of  her  lover  kept  its  nightly 
vigils. 

How  long  the  good  old  lady  would  have  observed  this 
promise  is  uncertain,  for  she  dearly  loved  to  talk  of  the  mar- 
vellous, and  there  is  a  triumph  in  being  the  first  to  tell  a  fright 
ful  story ;  it  is,  however,  still  quoted  in  the  neighborhood,  as 
a  memorable  instance  of  female  secrecy,  that  she  kept  it  to 
herself  for  a  whole  week ;  when  she  was  suddenly  absolved 
from  all  farther  restraint,  by  intelligence  brought  to  the  break- 
fast-table one  morning  that  the  young  lady  was  not  to  be 
found.  Her  room  was  empty — the  bed  had  not  been  slept  in 
—the  window  was  open — and  the  bird  had  flown ! 

The  astonishment  and  concern  with  which  the  intelligence 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  169 

was  received,  can  only  be  imagined  by  those  who  have  wit* 
nessed  the  agitation  which  the  mishaps  of  a  great  man  cause 
among  his  friends.  Even  the  poor  relations  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment from  the  indefatigable  labors  of  the  trencher ;  when  the 
aunt,  who  had  at  first  been  struck  speechless,  wrung  her  hands 
and  shrieked  out,  "  the  goblin  !  the  goblin  !  she's  carried  away- 
by  the  goblin  ! 

In  a  few  words  she  related  the  fearful  scene  of  the  garden, 
and  concluded  that  the  spectre  must  have  carried  off  his  bride. 
Two  of  the  domestics  corroborated  the  opinion,  for  they  had 
heard  the  clattering  of  a  horse's  hoofs  down  the  mountain 
about  midnight,  and  had  no  doubt  that  it  was  the  spectre  on 
his  black  charger,  bearing  her  away  to  the  tomb.  All  present 
were  struck  with  the  direful  probability;  for  events  of  the- 
kind  are  extremely  common  in  Germany,  as  many  well-authen- 
ticated histories  bear  witness. 

What  a  lamentable  situation  was  that  of  the  poor  Baron  ! 
What  a  heart-rending  dilemma  for  a  fond  father,  and  a  mem- 
ber of  the  great  family  of  Katzenellenbogen  !  His  only  daugh- 
ter had  either  been  wrapt  away  to  the  grave,  or  he  was  to^ 
have  some  wood-demon  for  a  son-in-law,  and  perchance,  a 
troop  of  goblin  grandchildren.  As  usual,  he  was  completely 
bewildered,  and  all  the  castle  in  an  uproar.  The  men  were 
ordered  to  take  horse,  and  scour  every  road  and  path  and  glen 
of  the  Odenwald.  The  Baron  himself  had  just  drawn  on  his 
jack-boots,  girded  on  his  sword,  and  was  about  to  mount  his 
steed  to  sally  forth  on  the  doubtful  quest,  when  he  was  brought 
to  a  pause  by  a  new  apparition.  A  lady  was  seen  approach- 
ing the  castle,  mounted  on  a  palfrey  attended  by  a  cavalier 
on  horseback.  She  galloped  up  to  the  gate,  sprang  from  her 
horse,  and  falling  at  the  Baron's  feet  embraced  his  knees.  It 
was  his  lost  daughter,  and  her  companion — the  Spectre  Bride- 
groom !  The  Baron  was  astounded.  He  looked  at  his  daugh- 
ter, then  at  the  Spectre,  and  almost  doubted  the  evidence  of 
his  senses.  The  latter,  too,  was  wonderfully  improved  in  his> 
appearance  since  his  visit  to  the  world  of  spirits-    His  dress 


I J  O  WORKS  OF  WASHING  TON  IR  VING. 

was  splendid,  and  set  off  a  noble  figure  of  manly  symmetry. 
He  was  no  longer  pale  and  melancholy.  His  fine  counte- 
nance was  flushed  with  the  glow  of  youth,  and  joy  rioted  in 
his  large  dark  eye. 

The  mystery  was  soon  cleared  up.  The  cavalier  (for  in 
truth,  as  you  must  have  known  all  the  while,  he  was  no 
goblin)  announced  himself  as  Sir  Herman  Von  Starkenfaust. 
He  related  his  adventure  with  the  young  count.  He  told  how 
he  had  hastened  to  the  castle  to  deliver  the  unwelcome  tidings^ 
but  that  the  eloquence  of  the  Baron  had  interrupted  him  in 
every  attempt  to  tell  his  tale.  How  the  sight  of  the  bride  had 
completely  captivated  him,  and  that  to  pass  a  few  hours  near 
her,  he  had  tacitly  suffered  the  mistake  to  continue.  How  he 
had  been  sorely  perplexed  in  what  way  to  make  a  decent  re- 
treat, until  the  Baron's  goblin  stories  had  suggested  his  eccen- 
tric exit.  How,  fearing  the  feudal  hostility  of  the  family,  he 
had  repeated  his  visits  by  stealth — had  haunted  the  garden 
beneath  the  young  lady's  window- — had  wooed — had  won — 
had  borne  away  in  triumph — ^and,  in  a  word,  had  wedded  the 
fair. 

Under  any  other  circumstances,  the  Baron  would  have 
been  inflexible,  for  he  was  tenacious  of  paternal  authority,  and 
devoutly  obstinate  in  all  family  feuds  ;  but  he  loved  his  daugh- 
ter ;  he  had  lamented  her  as  lost ;  he  rejoiced  to  find  her  still 
alive ;  and,  though  her  husband  was  of  a  hostile  house,  yet, 
thank  Heaven,  he  was  not  a  goblin.  There  was  something,  it 
must  be  acknowledged,  that  did  not  exactly  accord  with  his 
notions  of  strict  veracity,  in  the  joke  the  knight  had  passed 
upon  him  of  his  being  a  dead  man  ;  but  several  old  friends 
present,  who  had  served  in  the  wars,  assured  him  that  every 
stratagem  was  excusable  in  love,  and  that  the  cavalier  wa* 
entitled  to  especial  privilege,  having  lately  served  as  a  trooper- 
Matters,  therefore,  were  happily  arranged.  The  Baron 
pardoned  the  young  couple  on  the  spot.  The  revels  at  the 
castle  were  resumed.  The  poor  relations  overwhelmed  this 
new  member  of  the  family  with  loving  kindness ;  he  was  so 


cSKETCK-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  cRAYON.  GENT  ?rr 

gallant,  so  generous — and  so  rich.  The  aunts,  it  is  true,  were 
somewhat  scandalized  that  their  system  of  strict  seclusion, 
and  passive  obedience,  should  be  so  badly  exemplified,  but 
attributed  it  all  to  their  negligence  in  not  having  the  windows 
grated.  One  of  them  was  particularly  mortified  at  having  her 
marvellous  story  marred,  and  that  the  only  spectre  she  had  ever 
seen  should  turn  out  a  counterfeit ;  but  the  niece  seemed  per- 
fectly happy  at  having  found  him  substancial  flesh  and  blood 
—and  so  the  story  ends 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVIN(k 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEV« 

When  I  behold,  with  deep  astonishment. 
To  famous  Westminster  how  there  resorte, 
Living  in  brasse  or  stony  monument, 
The  princes  and  the  worthies  of  all  sorte ; 
Doe  not  I  see  reformde  nobilitie, 
Without  contempt,  or  pride,  or  ostentation. 
And  looke  upon  offenseless  majesty, 
Kaked  of  pomp  or  earthly  domination  ? 
And  how  a  play-game  of  a  painted  stone 
Contents  the  quiet  now  and  silent  sprites, 
Whome  all  the  world  which  late  they  stood  upon. 
Could  not  content  nor  quench  their  appetites. 
Life  is  a  frost  of  cold  felicitie, 
And  death  the  thaw  of  all  our  vanitie. 

Christolerd' s  Epigrams ^  by  T.  B.  1598c 

On  one  of  those  sober  and  rather  melancholy  days,  in  the 
latter  part  of  autumn,  when  the  shadows  of  morning  and  even- 
ing almost  mingle  together,  and  throw  a  gloom  over  the  de- 
cline of  the  year,  I  passed  several  hours  in  rambling  about 
Westminster  Abbey.  There  was  something  congenial  to  the 
season  in  the  mournful  magnificence  of  the  old  pile  ;  and  as 
I  passed  its  threshold,  it  seemed  like  stepping  back  into  the 
regions  of  antiquity,  and  losing  myself  among  the  shades  of 
former  ages. 

I  entered  from  the  inner  court  of  Westminster  school, 
through  a  long,  low,  vaulted  passage,  that  had  an  ahnost  sub- 
terranean look,  being  dimly  lighted  in  one  part  by  circular 
perforations  in  the  massive  walls.    Through  this  dark  avenue 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  173 

I  had  a  distant  view  of  the  cloisters,  with  the  figure  of  an  old 
verger,  in  his  black  gown,  moving  along  their  shadowy  vaults, 
and  seeming  like  a  spectre  from  one  of  the  neighboring  tombs. 

The  approach  to  the  abbey  through  these  gloomy  monastic 
remains,  prepares  the  mind  for  its  solemn  contemplation. 
The  cloister  still  retains  something  of  the  quiet  and  seclusion 
of  former  days.  The  gray  walls  are  discolored  by  damps,  and 
crumbling  with  age  ;  a  coat  of  hoary  moss  has  gathered  over 
the  inscriptions  of  the  mural  monuments,  and  obscured  the 
death's  heads,  and  other  funeral  emblems.  The  sharp  touches 
of  the  chisel  are  gone  from  the  rich  tracery  of  the  arches  ;  the 
roses  which  adorned  the  key-stones  have  lost  their  leafy 
beauty ;  everything  bears  marks  of  the  gradual  dilapidations 
of  time,  which  yet  has  something  touching  and  pleasing  in. 
its  very  decay. 

The  sun  was  pouring  down  a  yellow  autumnal  ray  into  the 
square  of  the  cloisters;  beaming  upon  a  scanty  plot  of  grass 
in  the  centre,  and  lighting  up  an  angle  of  the  vaulted  passage 
with  a  kind  of  dusty  splendor.  From  between  the  arcades, 
the  eye  glanced  up  to  a  bit  of  blue  sky,  or  a  passing  cloud  ; 
and  beheld  the  sun-gilt  pinnacles  of  the  abbey  towering  into 
the  azure  heaven. 

As  I  paced  the  cloisters,  sometimes  contemplating  this 
mingled  picture  of  glory  and  decay,  and  sometimes  endeavor- 
ing to  decipher  the  inscriptions  on  the  tombstones,  which 
formed  the  pavement  beneath  my  feet,  my  eyes  were  attracted 
to  three  figures,  rudely  carved  in  relief,  but  nearly  worn  away 
by  the  footsteps  of  many  generations.  They  were  the  effigies 
of  three  of  the  early  abbots  ;  the  epitaphs  were  entirely  effaced  ^ 
the  names  alone  remained,  having  no  doubt  been  renewed  in. 
later  times;  (Vitalis.  Abbas.  1082,  and  Gislebertus  Crispinus. 
Abbas.  1 1 14,  and  Laurentius.  Abbas.  11 76.)  I  remained 
some  little  while,  musing  over  these  casual  relics  of  antiquity^ 
thus  left  like  wrecks  upon  this  distant  shore  of  time,  telling 
no  tale  but  that  such  beings  had  been  and  had  perished ; 
teaching  no  moral  but  the  futility  of  that  pride  which  hopes 


WORKS  OF  WASHING  TON  IR  VING. 


Still  to  exact  homage  in  its  ashes,  and  to  live  in  an  inscription. 
A  little  longer,  and  even  these  faint  records  will  be  obliterated, 
and  the  monument  will  cease  to  be  a  memorial.  Whilst  I 
was  yet  looking  down  upon  the  gravestones,  I  was  roused  by 
the  sound  of  the  Abbey  clock,  reverberating  from  buttress  to 
buttress,  and  echoing  among  the  cloisters.  It  is  almost  start- 
ling to  hear  this  warning  of  departed  time  sounding  among 
the  tombs,  and  telling  the  lapse  of  the  hour,  which,  like  a 
billow,  has  rolled  us  onward  towards  the  grave. 

I  pursued  my  walk  to  an  arched  door  opening  to  the  in- 
terior of  the  abbey.  On  entering  here,  the  magnitude  of  the 
building  breaks  fully  upon  the  mind,  contrasted  with  the  vaults 
of  the  cloisters.  The  eye  gazes  with  wonder  at  clustered 
columns  of  gigantic  dimensions,  with  arches  springing  from 
them  to  such  an  amazing  height ;  and  man  wandering  about 
their  bases,  shrunk  into  insignificance  in  comparison  with  his 
own  handy-work.  The  spaciousness  and  gloom  of  this  vast 
edifice  produce  a  profound  and  mysterious  awe.  We  step 
cautiously  and  softly  about,  as  if  fearful  of  disturbing  the 
hallowed  silence  of  the  tomb  ;  while  every  footfall  whispers 
along  the  walls,  and  chatters  among  the  sepulchres,  making 
us  more  sensible  of  the  quiet  we  have  interrupted. 

It  seems  as  if  the  awful  nature  of  the  place  presses  down 
upon  the  soul,  and  hushes  the  beholder  into  noiseless  rever- 
ence. We  feel  that  we  are  surrounded  by  the  congregated 
bones  of  the  great  men  of  past  times,  who  have  filled  history 
with  their  deeds,  and  the  earth  with  their  renown.  And  yet 
it  almost  provokes  a  smile  at  the  vanity  of  human  ambition, 
to  see  how  they  are  crowded  together,  and  justled  in  the  dust ; 
what  parsimony  is  observed  in  doling  out  a  scanty  nook— a 
gloomy  corner— a  little  portion  of  earth,  to  those  whom,  when 
alive,  kingdoms  could  not  satisfy  :  and  how  many  shapes,  and 
forms,  and  artifices,  are  devised  to  catch  the  casual  notice  of 
the  passenger,  and  save  from  forgetfulness,  for  a  few  short 
years,  a  name  which  once  aspired  to  occupy  ages  of  the  world's 
thought  and  admiration. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  jjg 

I  passed  some  time  in  Poet's  Corner,  which  occupies  an 
-end  of  one  of  the  transepts  or  cross  aisles  of  the  abbey.  The 
monuments  are  generally  simple  ;  for  the  lives  of  literary  men 
afford  no  striking  themes  for  a  sculptor.  Shakspeare  and 
Addison  have  statues  erected  to  their  memories  ;  bur  the 
greater  part  have  busts,  medallions,  and  sometimes  mere  in- 
scriptions. Notwithstanding  the  simplicity  of  these  m.emo- 
Tials,  I  have  always  observed  that  the  visitors  to  the  abbey 
remain  longest  about  them.  A  kinder  and  fonder  feeling 
takes  place  of  that  cold  curiosity  or  vague  admiration  with 
which  they  gaze  on  the  splendid  monuments  of  the  great  and 
the  heroic.  They  linger  about  these  as  about  the  tombs  of 
friends  and  companions  ;  for  indeed  there  is  something  of 
companionship  between  the  author  and  the  reader.  Other  men 
are  known  to  posterity  only  through  the  medium  of  history, 
which  is  continually  growing  faint  and  obscure  ;  but  the  in- 
tercourse between  the  author  and  his  fellow-men  is  ever  new, 
active,  and  immediate.  He  has  lived  for  them  more  than  for 
himself  ;  he  has  sacrificed  surrounding  enjoyments,  and  shut 
himself  up  from  the  delights  of  social  life,  that  he  might  the 
more  intimately  commune  with  distant  minds  and  distant  ages. 
Well  may  the  world  cherish  his  renown  ;  for  it  has  been  pur- 
chased, not  by  deeds  of  violence  and  blood,  but  by  the  dili- 
gent dispensation  of  pleasure.  Well  may  posterity  be  grate- 
ful to  his  memory  ;  for  he  has  left  it  an  inheritance,  not  of 
empty  names  and  sounding  actions,  but  whole  treasures  of 
wisdom,  bright  gems  of  thought,  and  golden  veins  of  lan- 
guage. 

From  Poet's  Corner  I  continued  my  stroll  towards  that 
part  of  the  abbey  which  contains  the  sepulchres  of  the  kings. 
I  wandered  among  what  once  were  chapels,  but  which  are 
now  occupied  by  the  tombs  and  monuments  of  the  great.  At 
every  turn,  I  met  with  some  illustrious  name,  or  the  cogni- 
sance of  some  powerful  house  renowned  in  history.  As  th^ 
eye  darts  into  these  dusky  chambers  of  death,  it  catches 
glimpses  of  quaint  effigies  :  some  kneeling  in  niches,  as  if  in 


WORA'^S  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

devotion  ;  others  stretched  upon  the  tombs,  with  hands  piously 
pressed  together  ;  warriors  in  armor,  as  if  reposing  after  battle 
prelates,  with  crosiers  and  mitres ;  and  nobles  in  robes  and 
coronets,  lying  as  it  were  in  state.  In  glancing  over  this 
scene,  so  strangely  populous,  yet  where  every  form  is  so  still 
and  silent,  it  seems  almost  as  if  w^e  were  treading  a  mansion 
of  that  fabled  city,  where  every  being  had  been  suddenly 
transmuted  into  stone. 

I  paused  to  contemplate  a  tomb  on  which  lay  the  effigy 
of  a  knight  in  complete  armor.  A  large  buckler  was  on  one 
arm  ;  the  hands  were  pressed  together  in  supplication  upon 
the  breast ;  the  face  was  almost  covered  by  the  morion  ;  the 
legs  were  crossed  in  token  of  the  warrior's  having  been  en- 
gaged in  the  holy  war.  It  was  the  tomb  of  a  crusader ;  of 
one  of  those  military  enthusiasts,  who  so  strangely  mingled 
religion  and  romance,  and  whose  exploits  form  the  connect- 
ing link  between  fact  and  fiction — between  the  history  and 
the  fairy  tale.  There  is  something  extremely  picturesque  in. 
the  tombs  of  these  adventurers,  decorated  as  they  are  with 
rude  armorial  bearings  and  Gothic  .sculpture.  They  comport 
with  the  antiquated  chapels  in  which  they  are  generally  found  ; 
and  in  considering  them,  the  imagination  is  apt  to  kindle  with 
the  legendary  associations,  the  romantic  fictions,  the  chival- 
rous pomp  and  pageantry,  which  poetry  has  spread  over  the 
wars  for  the  Sepulchre  of  Christ.  They  are  the  relics  of  times 
utterly  gone  by  ;  of  beings  passed  from  recollection ;  of  cus- 
toms and  manners  with  which  ours  have  no  affinity.  They 
are  like  objects  from  some  strange  and  distant  land  of  which 
we  have  no  certain  knowledge,  and  about  which  all  our  con- 
ceptions are  vague  and  visionary.  There  is  something  ex- 
tremely solemn  and  awful  in  those  effigies  on  Gothic  tombs, 
extended  as  if  in  the  sleep  of  death,  or  in  the  supplication 
of  the  dying  hour.  They  have  an  effect  infinitely  more  im- 
pressive on  my  feelings  than  the  fanciful  attitudes,  the  over- 
wrought conceits,  and  allegorical  groups,  which  abound  on 
modern  monuments,     I  have  been  struck,  also,  with  the 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  177 

superiority  of  many  of  the  old  sepulchral  inscriptions.  There 
was  a-  noble  way,  in  former  times,  of  saying  things  simply,  and 
yet  saying  them  proudly  :  and  I  do  not  know  an  epitaph  that 
breathes  a  loftier  consciousness  of  family  worth  and  honor- 
able lineage,  than  one  which  affirms,  of  a  noble  house,  that 
all  the  brothers  were  brave,  and  all  the  sisters  virtuous," 
In  the  opposite  transept  to  Poet's  Corner,  stands  a  monu- 
ment which  is  among  the  most  renowned  achievements  of 
modern  art ;  but  which,  to  me,  appears  horrible  rather  than 
sublime.  It  is  the  tomb  of  Mrs.  Nightingale,  by  Roubillac. 
The  bottom  of  the  monument  is  represented  as  throwing  open 
its  marble  doors,  and  a  sheeted  skeleton  is  starting  forth. 
The  shroud  is  falling  from  his  fleshless  frame  as  he  launches 
his  dart  at  his  victim.  She  is  sinking  into  her  affrighted  hus- 
band's arms,  who  strives,  with  va^in  and  frantic  effort,  to  avert 
the  blow.  The  whole  is  executed  with  terrible  truth  and  spirit ; 
we  almost  fancy  we  hear  the  gibbering  yell  of  triumph,  burst- 
ing from  the  distended  jaws  of  the  spectre. — But  why  should 
we  thus  seek  to  clothe  death  with  unnecessary  terrors,  and  to 
spread  horrors  round  the  tomb  of  those  we  love  ?  The  grave 
should  be  surrounded  by  every  thing  that  might  inspire  ten- 
derness and  veneration  for  the  dead  ;  or  that  might  wdn  the 
living  to  virtue.  It  is  the  place,  not  of  disgust  and  dismay, 
but  of  sorrow  and  meditation. 

While  wandering  about  these  gloomy  vaults  and  silent  aisles, 
studying  the  records  of  the  dead,  the  sound  of  busy  existence 
from  without  occasionally  reaches  the  ear : — the  rumbling  of 
the  passing  equipage  ;  the  murmiur  of  the  multitude ;  or  per- 
haps the  light  laugh  of  pleasure.  The  contrast  is  striking 
with  the  deathlike  repose  around  ;  and  it  has  a  strange  effect, 
upon  the  feelings,  thus  to  hear  the  surges  of  active  life  hurry- 
ing along  and  beating  against  the  very  walls  of  the  sepulchre. 

I  continued  in  this  way  to  move  from  tomb  to  tomb,  and 
from  chapel  to  chapel.    The  day  was  gradually  wearing  away 
the  distant  tread  of  loiterers  about  the  abbey  grew  less  and 
less  frequent ;  the  sweet-tongued  bell  was  summoning:  to  even- 

4» 


lyg  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

Ing  prayers  ;  and  I  saw  at  a  distance  the  choristers,  in  their 
white  surplices,  crossing  the  aisle  and  entering  the  choir.  I 
stood  before  the  entrance  to  Henry  the  Seventh's  chapel.  A 
flight  of  steps  leads  up  to  it,  through  a  deep  and  gloomy,  but 
magnificent  arch.  Great  gates  of  brass,  richly  and  delicately 
wrought,  turn  heavily  upon  their  hinges,  as  if  proudly  reluc- 
tant to  admit  the  feet  of  common  mortals  into  this  most  gor- 
geous of  sepulchres. 

On  entering,  the  eye  is  astonished  by  the  pomp  of  archi- 
tecture, and  the  elaborate  beauty  of  sculptured  detail.  The 
very  walls  are  wrought  into  universal  ornament,  encrusted 
Avith  tracery,  and  scooped  into  niches,  crowded  with  the 
statues  of  saints  and  martyrs.  Stone  seems,  by  the  cunning 
labor  of  the  chisel,  to  have  been  robbed  of  its  weight  and. 
density,  suspended  aloft,  as  if  by  magic,  and  the  fretted  roof 
achieved  with  the  wonderful  minuteness  and  airy  security  of 
a  cobweb. 

Along  the  sides  of  the  chapel  are  the  lofty  stalls  of  the 
Knights  of  the  Bath,  richly  carved  of  oak,  though  with  the 
grotesque  decorations  of  Gothic  architecture.  On  the  pinna- 
cles of  the  stalls  are  affixed  the  helmets  and  crests  of  the 
knights,  with  their  scarfs  and  swords  ;  and  above  them  are 
suspended  their  banners,  emblazoned  with  armorial  bearings, 
and  contrasting  the  splendor  of  gold  and  purple  and  crimson, 
with  the  cold  gray  fretwork  of  the  roof.  In  the  midst  of  this 
grand  mausoleum  stands  the  sepulchre  of  its  founder, — his 
effigy,  with  that  of  his  queen,  extended  on  a  sumptuous  tomb, 
and  the  whole  surrounded  by  a  superbly  wrought  brazen 
railing. 

There  is  a  sad  dreariness  in  this  magnificence  ;  this  strange 
mixture  of  tombs  and  trophies  ;  these  emblems  of  living  and 
aspiring  ambition,  close  beside  mementos  which  show  the  dust 
and  oblivion  in  which  all  must  sooner  or  later  terminate* 
Nothing  impresses  the  mind  with  a  deeper  feeling  of  loneli- 
ness, than  to  tread  the  silent  and  deserted  scene  of  former 
tlirong  and  pageant.    On  looking  round  on  the  vacant  stalls 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  175 

the  knights  and  their  esquires,  and  on  the  rows  of  dusty 
but  gorgeous  banners  that  were  once  borne  before  them,  my 
imagination  conjured  up  the  scene  when  this  hall  was  bright 
with  the  valor  and  beauty  of  the  land  ;  glittering  with  the 
splendor  of  jewelled  rank  and  military  array  ;  alive  with  the 
tread  of  many  feet,  and  the  hum  of  an  admiring  multitude. 
All  had  passed  away  ;  the  silence  of  death  had  settled  again 
upon  the  place;  interrupted  only  by  the  casual  chirping  of 
birds,  which  'had  found  their  way  into  the  chapel,  and  built 
their  nests  among  its  friezes  and  pendants — sure  signs  of  soli- 
tariness and  desertion.  When  I  read  the  names  inscribed  on 
the  banners,  they  were  those  of  men  scattered  far  and  wide 
about  the  w^orld  ;  some  tossing  upon  distant  seas  ;  some  under 
arms  in-  distant  lands  ;  some  mingling  in  the  busy  intrigues  of 
•courts  and  cabinets ;  all  seeking  to  deserve  one  more  distinc- 
tion in  this  mansion  of  shadowy  honors — the  melancholy 
reward  of  a  monument. 

Two  small  aisles  on  each  side  of  this  chapel  present  a 
touching  instance  of  the  equality  of  the  grave,  which  brings 
down  the  oppressor  to  a  level  with  the  oppressed,  and  min- 
gles the  dust  of  the  bitterest  enemies  together.  In  one  is  the 
sepulchre,  of  the  haughty  Elizabeth;  in  the  other  is  that  of 
her  victim,  the  lovely  and  unfortunate  Mary.  Not  an  hour  in 
the  day,  but  some  ejaculation  of  pity  is  uttered  over  the  fate 
of  the  latter,  mingled  with  indignation  at  her  oppressor.  The 
walls  of  Elizabeth's  sepulchre  continually  echo  with  the  sighs 
of  sympathy  heaved  at  the  grave  of  her  rival. 

A  peculiar  melancholy  reigns  over  the  aisle  where  Mary 
lies  buried.  The  light  struggles  dimly  through  windows 
darkened  by  dust.  The  greater  part  of  the  place  is  in  deep 
^shadow,  and  the  walls  are  stained  and  tinted  by  time  and 
weather.  A  marble  figure  of  Mary  is  stretched  upon  the 
tomb,  round  which  is  an  iron  railing,  much  corroded,  bearing 
her  national  emblem — the  thistle.  I  was  w^eary  with  wander- 
ing, and  sat  down  to  rest  myself  by  the  monument,  revolving 
in  my  mind  the  checkered  and  disastrous  story  of  poor  Mary. 


l8o  WORKS  OF  IVASHINGTOIV  IRVING. 

The  sound  of  casual  footsteps  had  ceased  from  the  abbey* 
I  could  only  hear,  now  and  then,  the  distant  voice  of  the  priest 
repeating  the  evening  service,  and  the  faint  responses  of  the 
choir  j  these  paused  for  a  time,  and  all  was  hushed.  The 
etillness,  the  desertion  and.  obscurity  that  were  gradually  pre- 
vailing around,  gave  a  deeper  and  more  solemn  interest  to  the 
place ; 

For  in  the  silent  grave  no  conversation, 
No  joyful  tread  of  friends,  no  voice  of  lovers, 
No  careful  father's  counsel — nothing's  heard. 
For  nothing  is,  but  all  oblivion, 
Dust,  and  an  endless  darkness. 

Suddenly  the  notes  of  the  deep-laboring  organ  Durst  upon^ 
the  ear,  falling  with  doubled  and  redoubled  intensity,  and 
rolling,  as  it  were,  huge  billows  of  sound.  How  well  do  their 
volume  and  grandeur  accord  with  this  mighty  building  !  With, 
what  pomp  do  they  swell  through  its  vast  vaults,  and  breathe 
their  awful  harmony  through  these  caves  of  death,  and  make: 
the  silent  sepulchre  vocal ! — And  now  they  rise  in  triumphant 
acclamation,  heaving  higher  and  higher  their  accordant 
notes,  and  piling  sound  on  sound. — And  now  they  pause,  and 
the  soft  voices  of  the  choir  break  out  into  sweet  gushes  of 
melody ;  they  soar  aloft,  and  warble  along  the  roof,  and  seem 
to  play  about  these  lofty  vaults  like  the  pure  airs  of  heaven. 
Again  the  pealing  organ  heaves  its  thrilling  thunders,  com- 
pressing air  into  music,  and  rolling  it  forth  upon  the  soul. 
What  long-drawn  cadences  !  What  solemn  sweeping  concords  \ 
It  grows  more  and  more  dense  and  powerful — it  fills  the  vast 
pile,  and  seems  to  jar  the  very  walls — the  ear  is  stunned — the 
senses  are  overwhelmed.  And  now  it  is  winding  up  in  full 
jubilee — it  is  rising  from  the  earth  to  heaven — the  very  soul 
seems  rapt  away,  and  floated  upwards  on  this  swelling  tide  of 
harmony  ! 

I  sat  for  some  time  lost  in  that  kind  of  reverie  which  a 
strain  of  music  is  apt  sometimes  to  inspire :  the  shadows  of' 
evening  were  gradually  thickening  around  me ;  the  monu^ 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  i8i 


ments  began  to  cast  deeper  and  deeper  gloom  ;  and  the  dis- 
tant clock  again  gave  token  of  the  slowly  waning  day. 

I  arose,  and  prepared  to  leave  the  abbey.    As  I  descended 
t'.ie  iiight  of  steps  which  lead  into  the  body  of  the  building, 
my  eye  was  caught  by  the  shrine  of  Edward  the  Confessor, 
and  1  ascended  the  small  staircase  that  conducts  to  it,  to  take 
from  thence  a  general  survey  of  this  wilderness  of  tombs. 
The  shrine  is  elevated  upon  a  kind  of  platform,  and  close 
around  it  are  the  sepulchres  of  various  kings  and  queens. 
From  this  eminence  the  eye  looks  down  betw^een  pillars  and 
funeral  trophies  to  the  chapels  and  chambers  below,  crowded 
with  tombs  ;  where  warriors,  prelates,  courtiers,  and  states- 
men, lie  mouldering  in    their  beds  of  darkness."    Close  by 
me  stood  the  great  chair  of  coronation,  rudely  carved  of  oak, 
in  the  barbarous  taste  of  a  remote  and  Gothic  age.    The  scene 
seemed  almost  as  if  contrived,  with  theatrical  artifice,  to  pro- 
duce an  effect  upon  the  beholder.    Here  was  a  type  of  the 
beginning  and  the  end  of  human  pomp  and  power  ;  here  it 
was  literally  but  a  step  from  the  throne  to  the  sepulchre. 
Would  not  one  think  that  these  incongruous  mementos  had 
been  gathered  together  as  a  lesson  to  living  greatness  ? — to 
show  it,  even  in  the  moment  of  its  proudest  exaltation,  the 
neglect  and  dishonor  to  which  it  must  soon  arrive  ?  how  soon 
that  crown  which  encircles  its  brow  must  pass  away ;  and  it 
must  lie  down  in  the  dust  and  disgraces  of  the  tomb,  and  be 
trampled  upon  by  the  feet  of  the  meanest  of  the  multitude.^ 
For,  strange  to  tell,  even  the  grave  is  here  no  longer  a  sanc- 
tuary.   There  is  a  shocking  levity  in  some  natures,  which  leads 
tiiem  to  sport  with  awful  and  hallowed  things  ;  and  there  are 
base  minds,  which  delight  to  revenge  on  the  illustrious  dead 
the  abject  homage  and  grovelling  servility  which  they  pay  to 
the  living.    The  coffin  of  Edward  the  Confessor  has  been 
t)roken  open,  and  his  remains  despoiled  of  their  funeral  orna- 
ments ;  the  seeptre  has  been  stolen  from  the  hand  of  the  im- 
l^erious  Elizabeth,  and  the  effigy  of  Henry  the  Fifth  lies  head- 
tess.    Not  a  royal  monument  but  bears  some  proof  how  false 


l82 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 


and  fugitive  is  the  homage  of  mankind.  Some  are  plundered  : 
some  mutilated  ;  some  covered  with  ribaldry  and  insult — all 
more  or  less  outraged  and  dishonored  ! 

The  last  beams  of  day  were  now  faintly  streaming  through 
the  painted  windows  in  the  high  vaults  above  me  \  the  lower 
parts  of  the  abbey  were  already  wrapped  in  the  obscurity  of 
twilight.  The  chapels  and  aisles  grew  darker  and  darker. 
The  effigies  of  the  kings  faded  into  shadows ;  the  marble  fig- 
ures of  the  monuments  assumed  strange  shapes  in  the  uncer- 
tain light ;  the  evening  breeze  crept  through  the  aisles  like  the 
cold  breath  of  the  grave  ;  and  even  the  distant  footfall  of  a 
verger,  traversing  the  Poet's  Corner,  had  something  strange 
and  dreary  in  its  sound.  I  slowly  retraced  my  morning's  walk, 
and  as  I  passed  out  at  the  portal  of  the  cloisters,  the  door 
closing  with  a  jarring  noise  behind  me,  filled  the  whole  build- 
ing with  echoes. 

I  endeavored  to  form  some  arrangement  in  my  mind  of  the 
objects  I  had  been  contemplating,  but  found  they  were  already 
falling  into  indistinctness  and  confusion.  Names,  inscriptionSj, 
trophies,  had  all  become  confounded  in  my  recollection,  though 
I  had  scarcely  taken  my  foot  from  off  the  threshold.  What^ 
thought  I,  is  this  vast  assemblage  of  sepulchres  but  a  treasury 
of  humiliation  ;  a  huge  pile  ot  reiterated  homilies  on  the  emp- 
tiness of  renown,  and  the  certainty  of  oblivion  ?  It  is,  indeed 
the  empire  of  Death  ;  his  great  shadowy  palace  ;  where  he  sits 
'n  state,  mocking  at  the  relics  of  human  glory,  and  spreading 
dust  and  forgetfulness  on  the  monuments  of  princes.  How 
idle  a  boast,  after  all,  is  the  immortality  of  a  name  !  Time  is 
ever  silently  turning  over  his  pages  ;  we  are  too  much  en- 
grossed by  the  story  of  the  present,  to  think  of  the  characters 
and  anecdotes  that  give  interest  to  the  past ;  and  each  age  is 
a  volume  thrown  aside  to  be  speedily  forgotten.  The  idol  of 
to-day  pushes  the  hero  of  yesterday  out  of  our  recollection  ; 
and  will,  in  turn,  be  supplanted  by  his  successor  of  to-morrow. 
**Our  fathers,"  says  Sir  Thomas  Brown,  "find  their  graves  in 
our  short  memories,  and  sadly  tell  us  how  we  may  be  buried 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  ig-j 

in  our  survivors."  History  fades  into  fable  ;  fact  becomes 
clouded  with  doubt  and  controversy  3  tiie  inscription  moulders 
from  the  tablet ;  the  statue  falls  from  the  pedestal.  Columns, 
arches,  pyramids,  what  are  they  but  heaps  of  sand — and  their 
epitaphs,  but  characters  written  in  the  dust  ?  What  is  the 
security  of  a  tomb,  or  the  perpetuity  of  an  embalmment  ?  The 
remains  of  Alexander  the  Great  have  been  scattered  to  the 
wind,  and  his  empty  sarcophagus  is  now  the  mere  curiosity  of 
a  museum.  The  Egyptian  mummies,  which  Cambyses  or 
time  hath  spared,  avarice  now  consumeth ;  Mizraim  cures 
wounds,  and  Pharoah  is  sold  for  balsams."  ^ 

What  then  is  to  insure  this  pile,  which  now  towers  above 
me,  from  sharing  the  fate  of  mightierimausoleums  ?  The  time 
must  come  w^hen  its  gilded  vaults  which  nov/  spring  so  loftily, 
shall  lie  in  rubbish  beneath  the  feet ;  when,  instead  of  the 
sound  of  melody  and  praise,  the  winds  shall  whistle  through 
the  broken  arches,  and  the  owl  hoot  from  the  shattered  tower 
— when  the  garish  sunbeam  shall  break  into  these  gloomy 
mansions  of  death  ;  and  the  ivy  twine  round  the  fallen  column  ; 
and  the  fox-glove  hand  its  blossoms  about  the  nameless  urn, 
as  if  in  mockery  of  the  dead.  Thus  man  passes  away  ;  his 
name  passes  from  recollection  ;  his  history  is  a  tale  that  is  told, 
and  his  very  monument  becomes  a  ruin^ 

*  Sir  Thomas  Brown*  j 


s84 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  ZRVJNQ, 


CHRISTMAS. 

But  is  old,  old,  good  old  Christmas  gone  ?  Nothing  but  the  hair  or 
ills  good,  gray,  old  head  and  beard  left  ?  Well,  I  will  have  that,  seeing 
I  cannot  have  more  of  him. 

Hue  and  Cry  after  Christmas. 

A  man  might  then  behold 

At  Christmas,  in  each  hall, 
Good  fires  to  curb  the  cold. 

And  meat  for  great  and  small. 
The  neighbors  were  friendly  bidden. 

And  all  had  welcome  true, 
The  poor  from  the  gates  were  not  chidden, 

When  this  old  cap  was  new. 

Old  Song. 

There  is  nothing  in  England  that  exercises  a  more  delight- 
tu!  spell  over  my  imagination  than  the  lingerings  of  the  holi- 
day customs  and  rural  games  of  former  times.  They  recall 
the  pictures  my  fancy  used  to  draw  in  the  May  morning  of 
life,  when  as  yet  I  only  knew  the  world  through  books,  and 
believed  it  to  be  all  that  poets  had  painted  it ;  and  they  bring 
with  them  the  flavor  of  those  honest  days  of  yore,  in  which, 
perhaps  with  equal  fallacy,  I  am  apt  to  think  the  world  was 
tiore  homebred,  social,  and  joyous  than  at  present.  I  regret 
to  say  that  they  are  daily  growing  more  and  more  faint,  being 
gradually  worn  away  by  time,  but  still  more  obliterated  by 
modern  fashion.  They  resemble  those  picturesque  morsels  of 
Gothic  architecture,  which  we  see  crumbling  in  various  parts 
of  the  country,  partly  dilapidated  by  the  waste  of  ages,  and 
partly  lost  in  the  additions  and  alterations  of  latter  days.  Poe- 
try, however,  clings  with  cherishing  fondness  about  the  rural 
game  and  howiday  revel,  from  which  it  has  derived  so  many 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  185: 

of  its  themes — as  the  ivy  winds  it  rich  foliage  about  the  Gothic 
arch  and  mouldering  tower,  gratefully  repaying  their  support, 
by  clasping  together  their  tottering  remains,  and,  as  it  were,, 
embalming  them  in  verdure. 

Of  all  the  old  festivals,  however,  that  of  Christmas  awakens 
the  strongest  and  most  heartfelt  associations.  There  is  atone 
of  solemn  and  sacred  feeling  that  blends  with  our  conviviality,, 
and  lifts  the  spirit  to  a  state  of  hallowed  and  elevated  enjoy- 
ment. The  services  of  the  church  about  this  season  are  ex- 
tremely tender  and  inspiring  :  they  dwell  on  the  beautiful  story 
of  the  origin  of  our  faith,  and  the  pastoral  scenes  that  accom- 
panied its  announcement  ]  they  gradually  increase  in  fervor 
and  pathos  during  the  season  of  Advent,  until  they  break 
forth  in  full  jubilee  on  the  morning  that  brought  peace  and 
good-will  to  men.  I  do  not  know  a  grander  effect  of  music 
on  the  moral  feelings  than  to  hear  the  full  choir  and  the  peal- 
ing organ  performing  a  Christmas  anthem  in  a  cathedral,  and 
filling  every  part  of  the  vast  pile  with  triumphant  harmony. 

It  is  a  beautiful  arrangement,  also,  derived  from  days  of 
yore,  that  this  festival,  which  commemorates  the  announce- 
ment of  the  religion  of  peace  and  love,  has  been  made  the 
season  for  gathering  together  of  family  connections,  and  draw- 
ing closer  again  those  bands  of  kindred  hearts,  which  the 
cares  and  pleasures  and  sorrows  of  the  world  are  continually 
operating  to  cast  loose  ;  of  calling  back  the  children  of  a 
family,  who  have  launched  forth  in  life,  and  wandered  widely 
asunder,  once  more  to  assemble  about  the  paternal  hearth, 
that  rallying-place  of  the  affections,  there  to  grow  voung  and 
loving  again  among  the  endearing  mementoes  of  childhood. 

There  is  something  in  the  very  season  of  the  year,  that 
gives  a  charm  to  the  festivity  of  Christmas.  At  other  times, 
we  derive  a  great  portion  of  our  pleasures  from  the  mere  beau- 
ties of  Nature.  Our  feelings  sally  forth  and  dissipate  them- 
selves over  the  sunnv  landscape,  and  we  live  abroad  and 
everywhere."  The  song  of  the  bird,  the  murmur  of  the  stream, 
the  breathing  fragrance  of  spring,  the  soft  voluptuousness  of 


i86 


WORK'S  OF  WASHING 7VN  IRVING, 


summer,  the  golden  pomp  of  autumn  ;  earth  with  its  mantle  of 
refreshing  green,  and  heaven  with  its  deep,  deUcious  blue  and 
its  cloudy  magnificence, — all  fill  us  with  mute  but  exquisite 
delight,  and  we  revel  in  the  luxury  of  mere  sensation.  But  in 
the  depth  of  winter,  when  Nature  lies  despoiled  of  every  charm, 
and  wrapped  in  her  shroud  of  sheeted  snow,  we  turn  for  our 
gratifications  to  moral  sources.  The  dreariness  and  desola- 
tion of  the  landscape,  the  short  gloomy  days  and  darksome 
nights,  while  they  circumscribe  our  wanderings,  shut  in  our 
feelings  also  from  rambling  abroad,  and  make  us  more  keenly 
disposed  for  the  pleasures  of  the  social  circle.  Our  thoughts 
are  more  concentrated  ;  our  friendly  sympathies  more  aroused. 
AVe  feel  more  sensibly  the  charm  of  each  other's  society,  and 
are  brought  more  closely  together  by  dependence  on  each 
other  for  enjoyment.  Heart  calleth  unto  heart,  and  we  draw 
our  pleasures  from  the  deep  wells  of  living  kindness  which  lie 
in  the  quiet  recesses  of  our  bosoms  ;  and  which,  when  resorted 
to,  furnish  forth  the  pure  element  of  domestic  felicity. 

The  pitchy  gloom  without  makes  the  heart  dilate  on  enter- 
ing the  room  filled  with  the  glow  and  warmth  of  the  evening 
fire.  The  ruddy  blaze  diffuses  an  artificial  summer  and  sun- 
shine through  the  room,  and  lights  up  each  countenance  into 
,a  kindlier  welcome.  Where  does  the  honest  face  of  hospitality 
expand  into  a  broader  and  more  cordial  smile— where  is  the 
shy  glance  of  love  more  sweetly  eloquent— than  by  the  winter 
fireside  ?  and  as  the  hollow  blast  of  wintry  wind  rushes  through 
the  hall,  claps  the  distant  door,  whistles  about  the  casement, 
and  rumbles  down  the  chimney,  what  can  be  more  grateful 
than  that  feeling-  of  sober  and  sheltered  security,  with  which 
we  look  round  upon  the  comfortable  chamber,  and  the  scene 
of  domestic  hilarity? 

The  English,  from  the  great  prevalence  of  rural  habits 
throughout  every  class  of  society,  have  always  been  fond  ot 
those  festivals  and  holidays  which  agreeably  interrupt  the  still- 
tjess  of  country  life  ;  and  they  were  in  former  days  particulariy 
observant  of  the  religious  and  social  rights  of  Christmas.  It 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  187 

5s  inspiring  to  read  even  the  dry  details  which  some  antiqua- 
ries have  given  of  the  quaint  humors,  the  burlesque  pageants, 
the  complete  abandonment  to  mirth  and  good  fellowship,  with 
which  this  festival  was  celebrated.  It  seemed  to  throw  open 
every  door,  and  unlock  every  heart.  It  brought  the  peasant 
and  the  peer  together,  and  blended  all  ranks  in  one  warm 
generous  flow  of  joy  and  kindness.  The  old  halls  of  castles 
ind  manor-houses  resounded  with  the  harp  and  the  Christmas 
carol,  and  their  ample  boards  groaned  under  the  weight  of 
hospitality.  Even  the  poorest  cottage  welcomed  the  festive 
season  with  green  decorations  of  bay  and  holly — the  cheerful 
fire  glanced  its  rays  through  the  lattice,  inviting  the  passenger 
to  raise  the  latch,  and  join  the  gossip  knot  huddled  round  the 
hearth  beguiling  the  long  evening  with  legendary  jokes,  and 
oft-told  Christmas  tales. 

One  of  the  least  pleasing,  effects  of  modern  refinement,  is 
the  havoc  it  has  made  among  the  hearty  old  holiday  customs. 
It  has  completely  taken  off  the  sharp  touchings  and  spirited 
reliefs  of  these  embellishments  of  life,  and  has  w^orn  down  so- 
ciety into  a  more  smooth  and  polished,  but  certainly  a  less 
characteristic  surface.  Many  of  the  games  and  ceremonials 
of  Christmas  have  entirely  disappeared,  and,  like  the  sherris 
sack  of  old  Falstaff,  are  become  matters  of  speculation  and 
dispute  among  commentators.  They  flourished  in  times  full 
of  spirit  and  lustihood,  when  men  enjoyed  life  roughly,  but 
heartily  and  vigorously  :  times  wild  and  picturesque,  which 
have  furnished  poetry  with  its  richest  materials,  and  the  drama. 
with  its  most  attractive  variety  of  characters  and  manners. 
The  world  has  become  more  worldly.  There  is  more  of  dissi' 
pation  and  less  of  enjoyment.  Pleasure  has  expanded  into  a 
broader,  but  a  shallower  stream,  and  has  forsaken  many  of 
those  deep  and  quiet  channels,  where  it  flowed  sweetly  through 
the  calm  bosom  of  domestic  life.  Society  has  acquired  a  more 
enlightened  and  elegant  tone ;  but  it  has  lost  many  of 
its  strong  local  peculiarities,  its  homebred  feelings,  its  honest 
fireside  delights.    The  traditionary  customs  of  golden-hearted 


i88 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON'  IRVING, 


antiquity,  its  feudal  hospitalities,  and  lordly  wassailings,  have 
passed  away  with  the  baronial  castles  and  stately  manor- 
houses  in  which  they  were  celebrated.  They  comported  with 
the  shadowy  hall,  the  great  oaken  gallery,  and  the  tapestried 
parlor,  but  are  unfitted  for  the  light  showy  saloons  and  gay 
drawing-rooms  of  the  modern  villa. 

Shorn,  however,  as  it  is,  of  its  ancient  and  festive  honors, 
Christmas  is  still  a  period  of  delightful  excitement  in  England. 
It  is  gratifying  to  see  that  home  feeling  com.pletely  aroused 
which  holds  so  powerful  a  place  in  every  English  bosom.  The 
preparations  making  on  every  side  for  the  social  board  that  is 
again  to  unite  friends  and  kindred — the  presents  of  good  cheer 
passing  and  repassing,  those  tokens  of  regard  and  quickeners 
of  kind  feelings — the  evergreens  distributed  about  houses  and 
churches,  emblems  of  peace  and  gladness — all  these  have  the 
most  pleasing  effect  in  producing  fond  associations,  and  kind- 
ling benevolent  sympathies.  Even  the  sound  of  the  waits, 
rude  as  may  be  their  minstrelsy,  breaks  upon  the  midwatches 
of  a  winter  night  with  the  effect  of  perfect  harmony.  As  I 
have  been  awakened  by  them  in  that  still  and  solemn  hour 
when  deep  sleep  falleth  upon  man,"  I  have  listened  with  a 
hushed  delight,  and  connecting  them  with  the  sacred  and  joy- 
ous occasion,  have  almost  fancied  them  into  another  celestial 
choir,  announcing  peace  and  good-will  to  mankind.  How 
delightfully  the  imagination,  when  wrought  upon  by  these 
moral  influences,  turns  everything  to  melody  and  beauty  !  The 
very  crowing  of  the  cock,  heard  sometimes  in  the  profound 
repose  of  the  country,  "  telling  the  nightwatches  to  his  feathery 
dames,"  was  thought  by  the  common  people  to  announce  the 
approach  of  the  sacred  festival  : 

"  Some  say  that  ever  'gainst  that  season  comes 
Wherein  our  Saviour's  birth  was  celebrated, 
This  bird  of  dav/ning  singeth  all  night  long  : 
And  then,  they  say,  no  spirit  dares  stir  abroad ; 
The  nights  are  wholesome — then  no  planets  strike. 
No  fairy  takes,  no  witch  hath  power  to  charm. 
So  hallowed  and  so  gracious  is  the  time." 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON.  GENT.  igg 

Amidst  the  general  call  to  happiness,  the  bustle  of  the 
spirits,  and  stir  of  the  affections,  which  prevail  at  this  period^ 
what  bosom  can  remain  insensible  ?  It  is,  indeed,  tho  season 
of  regenerated  feeling — the  season  for  kindling  not  merely  the 
fire  of  hospitality  in  the  hall,  but  the  genial  flame  of  charity  in 
the  heart.  The  scene  of  early  love  again  rises  green  to  mem- 
ory beyond  the  sterild  waste  of  years,  and  the  idea  of  home, 
fraught  with  the  fragrance  of  home-dwelling  joys,  reanimates 
the  drooping  spirit — as  the  Arabian  breeze  will  sometimes  waft 
the  freshness  of  the  distant  fields  to  the  weary  pilgrim  of  the 
desert. 

Stranger  and  sojourner  as  I  am  in  the  land — though  ioi 
me  no  social  hearth  may  blaze,  no  hospitable  roof  throw  open 
its  doors,  nor  the  warm  grasp  of  friendship  welcome  me  at  the 
threshold — yet  I  feel  the  influence  of  the  season  beaming  into 
my  soul  from  the  happy  looks  of  those  around  me.  Surely 
happiness  is  reflective,  like  the  light  of  heaven ;  and  every 
countenance  bright  with  smiles,  and  glowing  with  innocent 
enjoyment,  is  a  mirror  transmitting  to  others  the  rays  of  a  su- 
preme and  ever-shining  benevolence.  He  who  can  turn  churl- 
ishly away  from  contemplating  the  felicity  of  his  fellow  beings, 
and  can  sit  down  darkling  and  repining  in  his  loneliness  when 
all  around  is  joyful,  may  have  his  moments  of  strong  excite- 
ment and  selfish  gratification,  but  he  wants  the  genial  and 
social  sympathies  which  constitute  the  charm  of  a  merry 
Christmas. 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


THE  STAGE-COACH. 

Omne  bene 
Sine  poena 
Tempus  est  ludendi 
Vei'iit  hora 
Absque  mora 
Libros  depvonendi. 

Old  Holiday  School  Song. 

In  the  preceding  paper,  I  have  made  some  general  obser- 
^rations  on  the  Christmas  festivities  of  England,  and  am  tempt- 
ed to  illustrate  them  by  some  anecdotes  of  a  Christmas  passed 
in  the  country;  in  perusing  which,  I  would  most  courteously 
invite  my  reader  to  lay  aside  the  austerity  of  wisdom,  and  to 
put  on  that  genuine  holiday  spirit,  which  is  tolerant  of  folly 
and  anxious  only  for  amusement. 

In  the  course  of  a  December  tour  in  Yorkshire,  I  rodi»  for 
a  long  distance  in  one  of  the  public  coaches,  on  the  day  pre- 
ceding Christmas.  The  coach  was  crowded,  both  inside  and 
out,  with  passengers,  who,  by  their  talk,  seemed  principally 
bound  to  the  mansions  of  relations  or  friends,  to  eat  the  Christ- 
mas dinner.  It  was  loaded  also  with  hampers  of  game,  and 
baskets  and  boxes  of  delicacies  ;  and  hares  hung  dangling 
their  long  ears  about  the  coachman's  box,  presents  from*  distant 
friends  for  the  impending  feast.  I  had  three  fine  rosy-cheeked 
school-boys  for  my  fellow-passengers  inside,  full  of  the  buxom 
health  and  manly  spirit  which  I  have  observed  in  the  children 
-of  his  country.  They  were  returning  home  for  the  holidays, 
%  high  glee,  and  promising  themselves  a  world  of  enjoyment 


SKJ^TCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.    19 j 


It  was  delightful  to  hear  the  gigantic  plans  of  pleasure  of  the 
litile  rogues,  and  the  impracticable  feats  they  were  to  perforrr 
during  their  six  weeks'  emancipation  from  the  abhorred  thral- 
dom of  book,  birch,  and  pedagogue.  They  were  full  of  the 
anticipations  of  the  meeting  with  the  family  and  household^ 
down  to  the  very  cat  and  dog ;  and  of  the  joy  they  were  to  give 
their  sisters,  by  the  presents  with  which  their  pockets  were 
crammed ;  but  the  meeting  to  which  they  seemed  to  look  for- 
ward with  the  greatest  impatience  was  with  Bantam,  which  I 
found  to  be  a  pony,  and  according  to  their  talk,  possessed  of 
more  virtues  than  any  steed  since  the  days  of  Bucephalus. 
How  he  could  trot !  how  he  could  run !  and  then  such  leaps  as 
he  would  take — there  was  not  a  hedge  in  the  whole  country 
that  h^  could  not  clear. 

They  vx^ere  under  the  particular  guardianship  of  the  coach- 
man, to  v/hom,  whenever  an  opportunity  presented,  they  ad- 
dressed a  host  of  questions,  and  pronounced  him  one  of  the 
best  fellows  in  the  whole  world.  Indeed,  I  could  not  but 
notice  the  more  than  ordinary  air  of  bustle  and  importance  of 
the  coachman,  who  wore  his  hat  a  little  on  one  side,  and  had 
a  large  bunch  of  Christmas  greens  stuck  in  the  button-hole 
of  his  coat.  He  is  always  a  personage  full  of  mighty  care  and 
business ;  but  he  is  particularly  so  during  this  season,  having 
so  many  commissions  to  execute  in  consequence  of  the  great 
interchange  of  presents.  And  here,  perhaps,  it  may  not  be 
unacceptable  to  my  untravelled  readers,  to  have  a  sketch  that 
may  serve  as  a  general  representation  of  this  very  numerous 
and  important  class  of  functionaries,  who  have  a  dress,  a  man- 
ner, a  language,  an  air,  peculiar  to  themselves,  and  prevalent 
throughout  the  fraternity  ;  so  that,  wherever  an  English  stage- 
coachman  may  be  seen,  he  cannot  be  mistaken  for  one  of  any 
other  craft  or  mystery. 

He  has  commonly  a  broad  full  face,  curiously  mottled  with 
red,  as  if  the  blood  had  been  forced  by  hard  feeding  into  every 
vessel  of  the  skin ;  he  is  swelled  into  jolly  dimensions  by  fre- 
quent potations  of  malt  liquors,  and  his  bulk  is  still  farther 


xgz  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 

increased  by  a  multiplicity  of  coats,  in  which  he  is  buried  like 
a  cauliflower,  the  upper  one  reaching  to  his  heels.  He  wears 
a  broad-brimmed  low-crowned  hat,  a  huge  roll  of  colored  hand- 
kerchief about  his  neck,  knowingly  knotted  and  tucked  in  at 
the  bosom  ;  and  has  in  summer-time  a  large  bouquet  of  flowers 
in  his  button-hole,  the  present,  most  probably,  of  some  enam- 
oured country  lass.  His  waistcoat  is  commonly  of  some  bright 
colour,  striped,  and  his  small-clothes  extend  far  below  the  knees^ 
to  meet  a  pair  of  jockey  boots  which  reach  about  half-way  up-- 
his  legs. 

All  this  costume  is  maintained  with  much  precision  ;  he- 
has  a  pride  in  having  his  clothes  of  excellent  materials,  and 
notwithstanding  the  seeminggrossness  of  his  appearance,  there 
is  still  discernible  that  neatness  and  propriety  of  person,  which, 
is  almost  inherent  in  an  Englishman.  He  enjoys  great  con- 
sequence and  consideration  along  the  road  ;  has  frequent  con- 
ferences with  the  village  housewives,  who  look  upon  him  as  a. 
man  of  great  trust  and  dependence ;  and  he  seems  to  have  a 
good  understanding  with  every  bright-eyed  country  lass.  The 
moment  he  arrives  where  the  horses  are  to  be  changed,  he  throws 
down  the  reins  with  something  of  an  air,  and  abandons  the 
cattle  to  the  care  of  the  hostler  ;  his  duty  being  merely  to  drive 
them  from  one  stage  to  another.  When  off  the  box,  his  hands- 
are  thrust  in  the  pockets  of  his  great-coat,  and  he  rolls  about  the 
inn-yard  with  an  air  of  the  most  absolute  lordliness.  Here  he 
is  generally  surrounded  by  an  admiring  throng  of  hostlers, 
stable-boys,  shoeblacks,  and  those  nameless  hangers-on,  that 
infest  inns  and  taverns,  and  run  errands,  and  do  all  kind  of 
odd  jobs,  for  the  privilege  of  battening  on  the  drippings  c^' 
the  kitchen  and  the  leakage  of  the  tap-room.  These  all  look 
up  to  him  as  to  an  oracle  ;  treasure  up  his  cant  phrases  ;  echo 
his  opinions  about  horses  and  other  topics  of  jockey  lore  ;  and, 
above  all,  endeavor  to  imitate  his  air  and  carriage.  Every 
ragamuffin  that  has  a  coat  to  his  back,  thrusts  his  hands  ia 
the  pockets,  rolls  in  his  gait,  talks  slang,  and  is  an  embryo 
Coachey, 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  i^-j 

Perhaps  it  might  be  owing  to  the  pleasing  serenity  that 
reigned  in  my  own  mind,  that  I  fancied  I  saw  cheerfulness  in 
every  countenance  throughout  the  journey.  A  Stage-Coach, 
however,  carries  animation  always  with  it,  and  puts  the  world 
in  motion  as  it  whirls  along.  The  horn,  sounded  at  the  en- 
trance of  a  village,  produces  a  general  bustle.  Some  hasten 
forth  to  meet  friends  ;  some  with  bundles  and  handboxes  to  se- 
►cure  places,  and  in  the  hurry  of  the  moment  can  hardly  take 
leave  of  the  group  that  accompanies  them.  In  the  mean  time, 
the  coachman  has  a  world  of  small  commissions  to  execute ; 
^sometimes  he  delivers  a  hare  or  pheasant ;  sometimes  jerks  a 
small  parcel  or  newspaper  to  the  door  of  a  public  house  ;  and 
sometimes  with  knowing  leer  and  words  of  sly  import,  hands  to 
some  half-blushing,  half-laughing  housemaid,  an  odd-shaped 
billetdoux  from  some  rustic  admirer.  As  the  coach  rattles 
through  the  village',  everyone  runs  to  the  window,  and  you 
have  glances  on  every  side  of  fresh  country  faces,  and  bloom- 
ing giggling  girls.  At  the  corners  are  assembled  juntos  of 
village  idlers  and  wise  men,  who  take  their  stations  there  for 
the  important  purpose  of  seeing  compatiy  pass  :  but  the  sagest 
knot  is  generally  at  the  blacksmith's,  to  whom  the  passing  of  the 
coach  is  an  event  fruitful  of  much  speculation.  The  smith, 
with  the  horse's  heel  in  his  lap,  pauses  as  the  vehicle  whirls 
by  ;  the  cyclops  round  the  anvil  suspend  their  ringing  ham-. 
mers,  and  suffer  the  iron  to  grow  cool  ;  and  the  sooty  spectre 
in  brown  paper  cap,  laboring  at  the  bellows,  leans  on  the 
handle  for  a  moment,  and  permits  the  asthmatic  engine  to 
heave  a  long-drawn  sigh,  while  he  glares  through  the  murky 
:smoke  and  sulphureous  gleams  of  the  smithy. 

Perhaps  the  impending  holiday  might  have  given  a  more 
than  usual  animation  to  the  country,  for  it  seemed  to  me  as  if 
everybody  was  in  good  looks  and  good  spirits.  Game,  poultry, 
and  other  luxuries  of  the  table,  were  in  brisk  circulation  in 
the  villages  ;  the  grocers,  butchers,  and  fruiterers'  shops 
were  thronged  with  customers.  The  housewives  were  stirring 
briskly  about,  putting  their  dwellings  in  order  \  and  the  glossy 


194  WORKS  OF  WA SHI A^G TO JV  IRVING. 

branches  of  holly,  with  their  bright  red  berries,  began  lO  appear 
at  the  windows.  The  scene  brought  to  mind  an  old  writer's  ac- 
count of  Christmas  preparations.  "  Now  capons  and  hens^ 
besides  turkeys,  geese,  and  ducks,  with  beef  and  mutton — 
must  all  die — for  in  twelve  days  a  multitude  of  people  will 
not  be  fed  with  a  little.  Now  plums  and  spice,  sugar  and 
honey,  square  it  among  pies  and  broth.  Now  or  never  must, 
music  be  in  tune,  for  the  youth  must  dance  and  sing  to  get 
them  a  heat,  while  the  aged  sit  by  the  fire.  The  country  maid 
leaves  half  her  market,  and  must  be  sent  again,  if  she  forgets 
a  pair  of  cards  on  Christmas  eve.  Great  is  the  contention  of 
Holly  and  Ivy,  whether  master  or  dame  wears  the  breeches^ 
Dice  and  cards  benefit  the  butler  ;  and  if  the  cook  do  not  lack, 
wit,  he  will  sweetly  lick  his  fingers." 

I  was  roused  from  this  fit  of  luxurious  meditation  by  a 
shout  from  my  little  travelling  companions.  They  had  beeni 
looking  out  of  the  coach-windows  for  the  last  few  miles,  recog- 
nizing  every  tree  and  cottage  as  they  approached  home,  and 
now  there  was  a  general  burst  of  joy — "  There's  John  !  ancf 
there's  old  Carlo  !  and  there's  Bantam !  "  cried  the  happ> 
little  rogues,  clapping  their  hands. 

At  the  end  of  a  lane,  there  was  an  old  sober-looking  ser- 
vant in  livery,  waiting  for  them  ;  he  was  accompanied  by  a 
superannuated  pointer,  and  by  the  redoubtable  Bantam,  a 
little  old  rat  of  a  pon\%  with  a  shaggy  mane  and  long  rusty  tally 
who  stood  dozing  quietly  by  the  road-side,  little  dreaming  ol 
the  bustling  times  that  awaited  him. 

I  was  pleased  to  see  the  fondness  with  which  the  little 
fellows  leaped  about  the  steady  old  footman,  and  hugged  the 
pointer,  who  wriggled  his  whole  body  for  joy.  But  Bantam, 
was  the  great  object  of  interest  ;  all  wanted  to  mount  at  once^ 
and  it  was  with  some  difficulty  that  John  arranged  that  they 
should  ride  by  turns,  and  the  eldest  should  nde  first. 

Off  they  set  at  last ;  one  on  the  pony,  with  the  dog  bound- 
ing and  barking  before  him,  and  the  others  holding  John's 
hands ;  both  talking  at  once  and  overpowering  him  with  ques- 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  ig^ 

tions  about  home,  and  with  school  anecdotes.  I  looked  after 
them  with  a  feeUng  in  which  I  do  not  know  whether  pleasure 
■or  melancholy  predominated  ;  for  1  was  reminded  of  those 
days  when,  like  them,  I  had  neither  known  care  nor  sorrow, 
and  a  holiday  was  the  summit  of  earthly  felicity.  We  stopped 
a  few  moments  afterwards,  to  water  the  horses  :  and  on  resum- 
ing our  route,  a  turn  of  the  road  brought  us  in  sight  of  a  neat 
country-seat.  I  could  just  distinguish  the  fornis  of  a  lady  and 
two  young  girls  in  the  portico,  and  I  saw  my  little  comrades, 
Avith  Bantam,  Carlo,  and  old  John,  trooping  along  the  carriage 
road.  I  leaned  out  of  the  coach-window,  in  hopes  of  witness- 
ing the  happy  meeting,  but  a  grove  of  trees  shut  it  from  my 
iight. 

In  the  evening  we  reached  a  village  where  I  Iiad  deter- 
-mined  to  pass  the  night.  As  we  drove  into  the  great  gateway 
of  the  inn,  I  saw,  on  one  side,  the  light  of  a  rousing  kitchen 
ifire  beaming  through  a  window.  I  entered,  and  admired  for 
the  hundredth  time,  that  picture  of  convenience,  neatness,  and 
broad  honest  enjoyment,  the  picture  of  an  English  inn.  It 
was  of  spacious  dimensions,  hung  round  with  copper  and  tin 
vessels  highly  polished,  and  decorated  here  and  there  vv-ith  a 
Christmas  green.  Hams,  tongues,  and  flitches  of  bacon  v/ere 
suspended  from  the  ceiling ;  a  smoke-jack  made  its  ceaseless 
clanking  beside  the  fire-place,  and  a  clock  ticked  in  one  cor- 
ner. A  well-scoured  deal  table  extended  along  one  side  of 
the  kitchen,  with  a  cold  round  of  beef,  and  other  hearty  viands, 
upon  it,  over  which  two  foaming  tankards  of  ale  seemed  moun- 
ting guard.  Travellers  of  inferior  order  were  preparing  to 
-attack  this  stout  repast,  whilst  others  sat  smoking  and  gossip- 
ing over  their  ale  on  two  high-backed  oaken  settles  beside  the 
fire.  Trim  housemaids  were  hurrying  backwards  and  for- 
wards, under  the  directions  of  a  bustling  landlady  ;  but  still 
seizing  an  occasional  moment  to  exchange  a  flippant  word,  and 
have  a  rallying  laugh,  with  the  group  round  the  fire.  The 
:scene  completely  realized  Poor  Robin^s  humble  idea  of  tke 
comforts  of  mid-winter : 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING* 


Now  trees  their  leafy  hats  do  bare 
To  reverence  AVinter's  silver  hair ; 
A  handsome  hostess,  merry  host, 
A  pot  of  ale  and  now  a  toast, 
Tobacco  and  a  good  coal  fire, 
Are  thmgs  this  season  doth  require.* 

I  had  not  been  long  at  the  inn,  when  a  post-chaise  drove 
tip  to  the  door.  A  young  gentleman  stepped  out,  and  by  the 
light  of  the  lamps  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  countenance  which 
I  thought  I  knew.  I  moved  forward  to  get  a  nearer  view^ 
when  his  eye  caught  mine.  I  was  not  mistaken  ;  it  was  Frank: 
Bracebridge,  a  sprightly  good-humored  young  fellow,  with 
whom  I  had  once  travelled  on  the  continent.  Our  meeting 
was  extremely  cordial,  for  the  countenance  of  an  old  fellow- 
traveller  always  brings  up  the  recollection  of  a  thousand- 
pleasant  scenes,  odd  adventures,  and  excellent  jokes.  To- 
discuss  all  these  in  a  transient  interview  at  an  inn,  was  im- 
possible ;  and  finding  that  I  was  not  pressed  for  time  and 
was  merely  making  a  tour  of  observation,  he  insisted  that  I 
should  give  him  a  day  or  two  at  his  father's  country-seat,  to> 
which  he  was  going  to  pass  the  holidays,  and  which  lay  at  a 
few  miles'  distance.  "  It  is  better  than  eating  a  solitarj^- 
Christmas  dinner  at  an  inn,"  said  he,  and  I  can  assure  you. 
of  a  hearty  welcome,  in  something  of  the  old-fashioned  style. 
His  reasoning  was  cogent,  and  I  must  confess  the  preparation. 
I  had  seen  for  universal  festivity  and  social  enjoyment,  had 
made  me  feel  a  little  impatient  of  my  loneliness.  I  closed^ 
therefore,  at  once,  with  his  invitation  ;  the  chaise  drove  up  ta 
the  door,  and  in  a  few  moments  I  was  on  my  way  to  th&- 
family  mansion  of  the  Bracebridges.  T 


*  Poor  Robin's  Almanack>  1694. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  ^yjj. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE, 

Saint  Francis  and  Saint  Benedight 
Blesse  this  house  from  wicked  wight ; 
From  the  night-mare  and  the  goblin, 
That  is  hight  good  fellow  Robin ; 
Keep  it  from  all  evil  spirits, 
Fairies,  weazles,  rats,  and  ferrets : 
From  curfew-time 

To  the  next  prime.  Cartwrtght. 

It  was  a  brilliant  moonlight  night,  but  extremely  cold; 
our  chaise  whirled  rapidly  over  the  frozen  ground  ;  the  post- 
boy smacked  his  whip  incessantly,  and  a  part  of  the  time  his 
horses  were  on  a  gallop.  He  knows  where  he  is  going," 
said  my  companion,  laughing,  "  and  is  eager  to  arrive  in  time 
for  some  of  the  merriment  and  good  cheer  of  the  servants' 
hall.  My  father,  you  must  know,  is  a  bigoted  devotee  of  the 
old  school,  and  prides  himself  upon  keeping  up  something  of 
old  English  hospitality.  He  is  a  tolerable  specimen  of  what 
you  will  rarely  meet  with  now-a-days  in  its  purity, — the  old 
English  country  gentleman  ;  for  our  men  of  fortune  spend  so 
much  of  their  time  in  town,  and  fashion  is  carried  so  much 
into  the  country,  that  the  strong  rich  peculiarities  of  ancient 
rural  life  are  almost  polished  away.  My  father,  however, 
from  early  years,  took  honest  Peacham  for  his  text-book,  in-* 
stead  of  Chesterfield  \  he  determined  in  his  own  mind,  that 
there  was  no  condition  more  truly  honorable  and  enviable 
than  that  of  a  country  gentleman  on  his  paternal  lands,  and, 

*  Peacham's  Complete  Gentleman,  1622. 


igg  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

therefore,  passes  the  whole  of  his  time  on  his  estate.  He  is 
a  strenuous  advocate  for  the  revival  of  the  old  rural  games 
and  holiday  observances,  and  is  deeply  read  in  the  writers^ 
ancient  and  modern,  who  have  treated  on  the  subject.  In- 
deed, his  favorite  range  of  reading  is  among  the  authors  who 
flourished  at  least  two  centuries  since  ;  who,  he  insists,  wrote, 
and  thought  more  like  true  Englishmen  than  any  of  their  suc- 
cessors. He  even  regrets  sometimes  that  he  had  not  been 
born  a  few  centuries  earlier,  when  England  was  itself,  and 
had  its  pecuHar  manners  and  customs.  As  he  lives  at  some 
distance  from  the  main  road,  in  rather  a  lonely  part  of  the 
country,  without  any  rival  gentry  near  him,  he  has  that  most- 
enviable  of  all  blessings  to  an  Englishman,  an  opportunity  of 
indulging  the  bent  of  his  own  humor  without  molestation. 
Being  representative  of  the  oldest  family  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  a  great  part  of  the  peasantry  being  his  tenants,  he 
is  much  looked  up  to,  and,  in  general,  is  known  simply  by  the 
appellation  of  *  The  'Squire  ; '  a  title  which  has  been  ac- 
corded to  the  head  of  the  family  since  time  immemorial.  I 
think  it  best  to  give  you  these  hints  about  my  worthy  old 
father,  to  prepare  you  for  any  little  eccentricities  that  might 
otherwise  appear  absurd." 

We  had  passed  for  some  time  along  the  wall  of  a  park, 
and  at  length  the  chaise  stopped  at  the  gate.  It  ^^as  in  a 
heavy  magnificent  old  style,  of  iron  bars,  fancifully  wrought 
at  top  into  flourishes  and  flowers.  The  huge  square  columns 
that  supported  the  gate  were  surmounted  by  the  family  crest. 
Close  adjoining  w^as  the  porter's  lodge,  sheltered  under  dark 
fir  trees,  and  almost  buried  in  shrubbery. 

The  post-boy  rang  a  large  porter's  bell,  which  resounded 
through  the  still  frosty  air,  and  was  answered  by  the  distant 
barking  of  dogs,  with  which  the  mansion-house  seemed  gar- 
risoned. An  old  woman  immediately  appeared  at  the  gate- 
As  the  moonlight  fell  strongly  upon  her,  I  had  a  full  view  of 
a  little  primitive  dame,  dressed  very  much  in  antique  taste, 
with  a  neat  kerchiaf  and  stomacher,  and  her  silver  hair  peep- 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT:  igij 

ing  from  under  a  cap  of  snowy  whiteness.  She  came  curtsey- 
ing forth  with  many  expressions  of  simple  joy  at  seeing  her 
young  master.  Her  hu-sband,  it  seemed,  was  up  at  the  house^ 
keeping  Christmas  eve  in  the  servants'  hall  ;  they  could  not 
do  without  him,  as  he  was  the  best  hand  at  a  song  and  story 
in  the  household. 

My  friend  proposed  that  we  should  alight,  and  walk 
through  the  park  to  the  Hall,  which  was  at  no  great  distance, 
while  the  chaise  should  follow  on.  Our  road  wound  through 
a  noble  avenue  of  trees,  among  the  naked  branches  of  which 
the  moon  glittered  as  she  rolled  through  the  deep  vault  of  a 
<:loudless  sky.  The  lawn  beyond  was  sheeted  with  a  slight 
covering  of  snow,  which  here  and  there  sparkled  as  the  moon- 
beams caught  a  frosty  crystal ;  and  at  a  distance  might  be 
seen  a  thin  transparent  vapor,  stealing  up  from  the  low 
grounds,  and  threatening  gradually  to  shroud  the  landscape. 

My  companion  looked  round  him  with  transport : — How 
often,"  said  he,  "have  I  scampered  up  this  avenue,  on  re- 
vurning  home  on  school  vacations  !  How  often  have  I  played 
ander  these  trees  when  a  boy  !  I  feel  a  degree  of  filial  rever- 
ence for  them,  as  we  look  up  to  those  who  have  cherished  us 
m  childhood.  My  father  was  always  scrupulous  in  exacting 
our  holidays,  and  having  us  around  him  on  family  festivals. 
He  used  to  direct  and  superintend  our  games  with  the  strict* 
ness  that  some  parents  do  the  studies  of  their  children.  He 
was  very  particular  that  we  should  play  the  old  English  games 
according  to  their  original  form  ;  and  consulted  old  books  for 
precedent  and  authority  for  every  *  merrie  disport ; '  yet,  I 
assure  you,  there  never  was  pedantry  so  delightful.  It  was 
the  policy  of  the  good  old  gentleman  to  make  his  children 
feel  that  Jiome  was  the  happiest  place  in  the  world,  and  I 
value  this  delicious  home-feeling  as  one  of  the  choicest  gifts 
a  parent  could  bestow." 

We  were  interrupted  by  the  clamor  of  a  troop  of  dogs  ot 
all  sorts  and  sizes,  "  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp  and  hound,  and 
curs  of  low  degree,"  that,  disturbed  by  the  ringing  ot  the  por- 


200 


V/OR'KS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


ter's  bell  and  the  rattling  of  the  chaise,  came  bounding  open* 
mouthed  across  the  lawn. 

"  The  little  dogs  and  all, 

Tray,  Blanche,  and  Sweetheart,  see,  they  bark  at  me  •  " 

cried  Bracebridge,  laughing.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the 
bark  was  changed  into  a  yelp  of  delight,  and  in  a  moment  he 
was  surrounded  and  almost  overpowered  by  the  caresses  of 
the  faithful  animals. 

We  had  now  come  in  full  view  of  the  old  family  mansion, 
partly  thrown  in  deep  shadow,  and  partly  lit  up  by  the  cold 
moonshine.  It  was  an  irregular  building  of  some  magnitude, 
and  seemed  to  be  of  the  architecture  of  different  periods. 
One  wing  was  evidently  very  ancient,  with  heavy  stone- 
shafted  bow  windows  jutting  out  and  overrun  with  ivy,  from 
among  the  foliage  of  which  the  small  diamond-shaped  panes 
of  glass  glittered  with  the  moon-beams.  The  rest  of  the 
house  was  in  the  French  taste  of  Charles  the  Second's  time, 
having  been  repaired  and  altered,  as  my  friend  told  me,  by 
one  of  his  ancestors,  who  returned  with  that  monarch  at  the 
Restoration.  The  grounds  about  the  house  were  laid  out  in 
the  old  formal  manner  of  artificial  flower-beds,  clipped  shrub- 
beries, raised  terraces,  and  heavy  stone  ballustrades,  orna- 
mented with  urns,  a  leaden  statue  or  two,  and  a  jet  of  water. 
The  old  gentleman,  I  was  told,  was  extremely  careful  to  pre» 
serve  this  obsolete  finery  in  all  its  original  state.  He  ad^ 
mired  this  fashion  in  gardening  ;  it  had  an  air  of  magnifi^ 
cence,  was  courtly  and  noble,  and  befitting  good  old  family 
style.  The  boasted  imitation  of  nature  and  modern  garden- 
ing had  sprung  up  with  modern  republican  notions,  but  did 
not  suit  a  monarchical  government — it  smacked  of  the  level- 
ling system.  I  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  introduction  of 
politics  into  gardening,  though  I  expressed  some  apprehen- 
sion that  I  should  find  the  old  gentleman  rather  intolerant  in 
his  creed.  Frank  assured  me,  however,  that  it  was  almost 
the  only  instance  in  which  he  had  ever  heard  his  father  med- 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT. 


20I 


die  with  politics  ;  and  he  believed  he  had  got  this  notion  from 
a  member  of  Parliament,  who  once  passed  a  few  weeks  with 
him.  The  'Squire  was  glad  of  any  argument  to  defend  his 
clipped  yew  trees  and  formal  terraces,  which  had  been  occa- 
sionally attacked  by  modern  landscape  gardeners. 

As  we  approached  the  house,  we  heard  the  sound  of 
music,  and  now  and  then  a  burst  of  laughter,  from  one  end 
of  the  building.  This,  Bracebridge  said,  must  proceed  from 
the  servants'  hall,  where  a  great  deal  of  revelry  was  per- 
mitted, and  even  encouraged,  by  the  'Squire,  throughout  the 
twelve  days  of  Christmas,  provided  every  thing  was  done  con- 
formably to  ancient  usage.  Here  were  kept  up  the  old  games 
of  hoodman  bUnd,  shoe  the  wild  mare,  hot  cockles,  steal  the 
white  loaf,  bob-apple,  and  snap-dragon  ;  the  Yule  clog,  and 
Christmas  candle,  were  regularly  burnt,  and  the  mistletoe, 
with  its  white  berries,  hung  up,  to  the  imminent  peril  of  all 
the  pretty  house-maids."* 

So  intent  were  the  servants  upon  their  sports,  that  we  had 
to  ring  repeatedly  before  we  could  make  ourselves  heard.  On 
our  arrival  being  announced,  the  'Squire  came  out  to  receive 
us,  accompanied  by  his  two  other  sons  ;  one  a  young  officer 
in  the  army,  home  on  leave  of  absence  ;  the  other  an  Oxon- 
ian, just  from  the  university.  The  'Squire  was  a  fine  healthy- 
looking  old  gentleman,  with  silver  hair  curling  lightly  round 
an  open  florid  countenance  ;  in  which  a  physiognomist,  with 
the  advantage,  like  myself,  of  a  previous  hint  or  two,  might 
discover  a  singular  mixture  of  whim  and  benevolence. 

The  family  meeting  was  warm  and  affectionate  ;  as  the 
evening  was  far  advanced,  the  'Squire  would  not  permit  us  to 
change  our  travelling  dresses,  but  ushered  us  at  once  to  the 
company,  which  was  assembled  in  a  large  old-fashioned  hall. 
It  was  composed  of  different  branches  of  a  numerous  family 

*  The  mistletoe  is  still  hung  up  in  farm-houses  and  kitchens,  at  Christ- 
mas ;  and  the  young  men  have  the  privilege  of  kissing  the  girls  under  it, 
plucking  each  time  a  berry  from  the  bush.  When  the  berries  are  aU 
plucked,  the  privilege  ceases. 


202 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 


connection,  where  there  were  the  usual  proportions  of  old 
uncles  and  aunts,  comfortable  married  dames,  superannuated 
spinsters,  blooming  country  cousins,  half-fledged  striplings, 
and  bright-eyed  boarding-school  hoydens.  They  were  vari- 
ously occupied  ;  some  at  a  round  game  of  cards  ;  others  con- 
versing round  the  fire-place  ;  at  one  end  of  the  hall  was  a 
group  of  the  young  folks,  some  nearly  grown  up,  others  of  a 
i\iore  tender  and  budding  age,  fully  engrossed  by  a  merry 
game ;  and  a  profusion  of  wooden  horses,  penny  trumpets, 
and  tattered  dolls  about  the  floor,  showed  traces  of  a  troop  of 
little  fairy  beings,  who,  having  froMcked  tlirough  a  happy  day, 
had  been  carried  off  to  slumber  through  a  peaceful  night. 

While  the  mutual  greetings  were  going  on  between  young 
Eracebridge  and  his  relatives,  I  had  time  to  scan  the  apart- 
ment. I  have  called  it  a  hall,  for  so  it  had  certainly  been  in 
old  times,  and  the  'Squire  had  evidently  endeavored  to  restore 
it  to  something  of  its  primitive  state.  Over  the  heavy  project- 
ing fire>place  was  suspended  a  picture  of  a  warrior  in  armor, 
standing  by  a  w^iite  horse,  and  on  the  opposite  wall  hung  a 
helmet,  buckler,  and  lance.  At  one  end  an  enormous  pair 
of  antlers  were  inserted  in  the  wall,  the  branches  serving  as 
hooks  on  which  to  suspend  hats,  whips,  and  spurs  ;  and  i^^i 
the  corners  of  the  apartment  were  fowling-pieces,  fishing-rods, 
and  other  sporting  implements.  The  furniture  was  of  the 
cumbrous  workmanship  of  former  days,  though  some  articles 
of  modern  convenience  had  been  added,  and  the  oaken  floor 
had  been  carpeted  ;  so  that  the  whole  presented  an  odd  mix- 
ture of  parlor  and  hall. 

The  grate  had  been  removed  from  the  wide  overwhelming 
fire-place,  to  make  way  for  a  fire  of  Vv'oocl,  in  the  midst  of 
which  was  an  enormous  log,  glowing  and  blazing,  and  send- 
ing forth  a  vast  volume  of  light  and  heat  ;  this  I  understood 
was  the  yule  clog,  which  the  'Squire  was  particular  in  having 
brought  in  and  illumined  on  a  Christmas  eve,  according  to 
ancient  custom.^ 

*  The  yule  clog  is  a  great  log  of  wood,  sometimes  the  root  of  a  tree. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  203 


It  was  really  delightful  to  see  the  old  'Squire,  seated  in 
his  hereditary  elbow-chair,  by  the  hospitable  fireside  of  his 
ancestors,  and  looking  around  him  like  the  sun  of  a  system, 
beaming  warmth  and  gladness  to  every  heart.  Even  the  very 
dog  that  lay  stretched  at  his  feet,  as  he  lazily  shifted  his  posi- 
tion and  yawned,  would  look  fondly  up  in  his  master's  face, 
wag  his  tail  against  the  floor,  and  stretch  himself  again  to 
sleep,  confident  of  kindness  and  protection.  There  is  an 
emanation  from  the  heart  in  genuine  hospitality,  which  can- 
iiot  be  described,  but  is  immediately  felt,  and  puts  the 
stranger  at  once  at  his  ease.  I  had  not  been  seated  many 
minutes  by  the  comfortable  hearth  of  the  worthy  old  cavalier, 
before  I  found  myself  as  much  at  home  as  if  I  had  been  one 
of  the  family. 

Supper  was  announced  shortly  after  our  arrival.  It  was 
served  up  in  a  spacious  oaken  chamber,  the  panels  of  which 
shone  with  wax,  and  around  which  were  several  family  por- 
traits decorated  with  holly  and  ivy.  Beside  the  accustomed 
lights,  two   great  wax  tapers,-  called   Christmas  candles, 

brought  into  the  house  with  great  ceremony,  on  Christmas  eve,  laid  in  the 
fire-place,  and  lighted  with  the  brand  of  last  year's  clog.  While  it  lasted, 
there  was  great  drinking,  singing,  and  telling  of  tales.  Sometimes  it  was 
accompanied  by  Christmas  candles ;  but  in  the  cottages,  the  only  light 
was  from  the  ruddy  blaze  of  the  great  wood  fire.  The  yule  clog  was  to 
burn  all  night :  if  it  went  out,  it  was  considered  a  sign  of  ill  luck. 
Herrick  mentions  it  in  one  of  his  songs: 

Come  bring  with  a  noise, 

My  merrie,  merrie  boys, 
The  Christmas  Log  to  the  firing  ; 

While  njy  good  Jame  she 

Bids  ye  all  be  free, 
And  drink  to  your  hearts  desiring. 

The  yule  clog  is  still  burnt  in  many  farm-houses  and  kitchens  in  Eng* 
land,  particularly  in  the  north  ;  and  there  arc  several  superstitions  con* 
nected  with  it  among  the  peasantry.  If  a  squinting  person  come  to  the 
house  while  it  is  burning,  or  a  person  barefooted,  it  is  considered  an  ill 
omen.  The  brand  remaining  from  the  yule  clog  is  carefully  put  away  to 
light  the  next  year's  Christmas  fire. 


204 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


wreathed  with  greens,  were  placed  on  a  highly  polished  beaufet 
among  the  family  plate.  The  table  v^^as  abundantly  spread  witii 
substantial  fare  ;  but  the  'Squire  made  his  supper  of  frumenty, 
a  dish  made  of  wheat  cakes  boiled  in  milk  with  rich  spices,  be- 
ing a  standing  dish  in  old  times  for  Christmas  eve.  I  was 
happy  to  find  my  old  friend,  minced  pie,  in  the  retinue  of 
the  feast  ;  and  finding  him  to  be  perfectly  orthodox,  and 
that  I  need  not  be  ashamed  of  my  predilection,  I  greeted 
him  with  all  the  warmth  wherewith  we  usually  greet  an  old 
and  very  genteel  acquaintance. 

The  mirth  of  the  company  was  greatly  promoted  by  the 
humors  of  an  eccentric  personage  whom  Mr.  Bracebridge 
always  addressed  with  the  quaint  appellation  of  Master 
Simon.  He  w^as  a  tight  brisk  little  man,  with  the  air  of  an 
arrant  old  bachelor.  His  nose  was  shaped  like  the  bill  of  a 
parrot  ;  his  face  slightly  pitted  with  the  small-pox,  with  a 
dry  perpetual  bloom  on  it,  like  a  frost-bitten  leaf  in  autumn. 
He  had  an  eye  of  great  quickness  and  vivacity,  with  a 
drollery  and  lurking  waggery  of  expression  that  was  irre- 
sistible. He  was  evidently  the  wit  of  the  family,  dealing  very 
much  in  sly  jokes  and  innuendoes  with  the  ladies,  and  mak- 
ing infinite  merriment  by  harpings  upon  old  themes  ;  which, 
unfortunately,  my  ignorance  of  the  family  chronicles  did  not 
permit  me  to  enjoy.  It  seemed  to  be  his  great  delight,  duiing 
supper,  to  keep  a  young  girl  next  him  in  a  continual  agony  of 
stifled  laughter,  in  spite  of  her  awe  oi  the  reproving  looks  of 
her  mother,  who  sat  opposite.  Indeed,  he  was  the  idol  of  the 
younger  part  of  the  company,  who  laughed  at  everything  he 
said  or  did,  and  at  every  turn  of  his  countenance.  [  could  not 
wonder  at  it ;  for  he  must  have  been  a  miracle  of  accomplish- 
ments in  their  eyes.  He  could  imitate  Punch  and  Judy  ;  make 
an  old  woman  of  his  hand,  with  the  assistance  of  a  burnt 
cork  and  pocket-handkerchief ;  and  cut  an  orange  into  such  a 
ludicrous  caricature,  that  the  young  folks  were  ready  to  die 
with  laughing. 

I  was  let  briefly  into  his  history  by  Frank  Bracebridge. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT,  205 


V  le  was  an  old  bachelor,  of  a  small  independent  income, 
which,  by  careful  management,  was  sutiicient  for  all  his 
Wkints.   He  revolved  through  the  family  system  like  a  vagraht 
comet  in  its  orbit,  sometimes  visiting  one  branch,  and  some- 
times another  quite  remote,  as  is  often  the  case  with  gentle- 
men of  extensive  connections  and  small  fortunes  in  England. 
He  had  a  chirping,  buoyant  disposition,  always  enjoying  the 
present  moment  ;  and  his  frequent  change  of  scene  and  com- 
pany prevented  liis  acquiring  those  rusty,  unaccommodating 
habits,  with  which  old  bachelors  are  sd  uncharitably  charged. 
He  was  a  complete  family  chronicle,  being  versed  in  the 
genealogy,  history,  and  intermarriages  of  the  whole  house  of 
Bracebridge,  which  made  him  a  great  favorite  with  the  old 
folks  ;  he  was  a  beau  of  all  the  elder  ladies  and  superannuated 
spinsters,  among  whom  he  was  habitually  considered  rather  a 
young  fellow,   and  he  was  master  of  the  revels  among  the 
children  ;  so  that  there  was  not  a  more  popular  being  in  the 
sphere  in  which  he  moved,  than  Mr.  Simon  Bracebridge.  Of 
late  years,  he  had  resided  almost  entirely  with  the  'Squire, 
to  whom  he  had  become  a  factotum,  and  whom  he  particu- 
larly delighted  by  jumping  with  his  humor  in  respect  to  old 
times,  and 'by  having  a  scrap  of  an  old  song  to  suit  every 
occasion.   We  had  presently  a  specimen  of  his  last-mentioned 
talent ;  for  no  sooner  was  supper  removed,  and  spiced  wines 
and  other  beverages  peculiar  to  the  season  introduced,  than 
Master  Simon  was  called  on  for  a  good  old  Christmas  song. 
He  bethought  himself  for  a  moment,  and  then,  with  a  sparkle 
of  the  eye,  and  a  voice  that  was  by  no  means  bad,  excepting 
that  it  ran  occasionally  into  a  falsetto,  like  the  notes  of  21 
split  reed,  he  quavered  forth  a  quaint  old  ditty  i 

Now  Christmas  is  come, 

Let  us  beat  up  the  drum^ 
And  call  all  our  neighbors  together; 

And  when  they  appear, 

Let  us  make  such  a  cheer^ 
As  will  keep  out  the  wind  and  the  weather,  &c. 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 


The  supper  had  disposed  every  one  to  gayety,  and  an  old 
Tiarper  was  summoned  from  the  servants'  hall,  where  he  had 
been  strumming  all  the  evening,  and  to  all  appearance  comfort- 
ing himself  with  some  of  the  'Squire's  home-brewed.  He  was 
a  kind  of  hanger-on,  I  was  told,  of  the  establishment,  and 
though  ostensibly  a  resident  of  the  village,  was  oftener  to  be 
found  in  the  'Squire's  kitchen  than  his  own  home  ;  the  old 
gentleman  being  fond  of  the  sound  of    Harp  in  hall." 

The  dance,  like  most  dances  after  supper,  was  a  merry 
one  :  some  of  the  older  folks  joined  in  it,  and  the  'Squire 
himself  figured  down  several  couple  with  a  partner  with 
whom  /le  affirmed  he  had  danced  at  every  Christmas  for 
nearly  half  a  century.  Master  Simon,  who  seemed  to  be  a 
kind  of  connecting  link  between  the  old  times  and  the  new, 
and  to  be  withal  a  little  antiquated  in  the  taste  of  his  accom- 
plishments, evidently  piqued  himself  on  his  dancing,  and  was 
endeavoring  to  gain  credit  by  the  heel  and  toe,  rigadoon, 
and  other  graces  of  the  ancient  school  :  but  he  had  unluckily 
assorted  himself  with  a  little  romping  girl  from  boarding- 
school,  who,  by  her  wild  vivacity,  kept  him  continually  on  the 
stretch,  and  defeated  all  his  sober  attempts  at  elegance  : — 
such  are  the  ill-sorted  matches  to  which  antique  gentlemen 
are  unfortunately  prone  ! 

The  young  Oxonian,  on  the  contrary,  had  led  out  one  of 
his  maiden  aunts,  on  whom  the  rogue  played  a  thousand  little 
knaveries  with  impunity  ;  he  was  full  of  practical  jokes,  and 
his  delight  was  to  tease  his  aunts  and  cousins  ;  yet,  like  all 
madcap  youngsters,  he  was  a  universal  favorite  among  the 
women.  The  most  in^teresting  couple  in  the  dance  was  the 
•young  officer,  and  a  ward  of  the  'Squire's,  a  beautiful  blushing 
girl  of  seventeen.  From  several  shy  glances  which  I  had  no- 
ticed in  the  course  of  the  evening,  I  suspected  there  was  a  little 
kindness  growing  up  between  them  ;  and,  indeed,  the  young 
soldier  was  just  the  hero  to  captivate  a  romantic  girl.  He  was 
tall,  slender,  and  handsome  ;  and,  like  most  young  British 
officers  of  late  years,  had  picked  up  various  small  accomplish* 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  207 

ments  on  the  continent — he  could  talk  French  and  Italian — 
-draw  landscapes — sing  very  tolerably — dance  divinely  ;  but, 
above  all,  he  had  been  wounded  at  Waterlo  .  ; — what  girl  ot 
seventeen,  well  read  in  poetry  and  romance,  could  resist  .uch 
ft  mirror  of  chivalry  and  perfection  ? 

The  moment  the  dance  was  over,  he  caught  up  a  guitar, 
and  lolling  against  the  old  marble  fire-place,  in  an  attitude 
which  I  am  half  inclined  to  suspect  was  studied,  began  thj 
little  French  air  of  the  Troubadour.  The  'Squire,  how- 
ever, exclaimed  against  hr.ving  anything  on  Christmas  ev^e 
but  good  old  English  ;  upon  which  the  young  minstrel,  cast- 
ing up  his  eye  for  a  moment,  as  if  in  an  effort  of  memory, 
struck  into  another  strain,  and  with  a  charming  air  of  gal- 
lantry, gave  Herrick's    Night-Piece  to  Julia  :  " 

Her  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thee. 
The  shooting  stars  attend  thee, 

And  the  elves  also, 

Whose  little  eyes  glow 
Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee. 

Ko  Will-o'-th'-Wisp  mislight  thee  ; 
Kor  snake  or  slow-worm  bite  thee  ; 

But  on,  on  thy  way. 

Not  making  a  stay. 
Since  ghost  there  is  none  to  affright  thec. 

Then  let  not  the  dark  thee  cumber ; 
What  though  the  moon  does  slumber. 

The  stars  of  the  night 

Will  lend  thee  their  light, 
Like  tapers  clear  without  number. 

Then,  Julia,  let  me  woo  thee, 
Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  me  : 

And  when  I  shall  meet 

Thy  silvery  feet. 
My  soul  I'll  pour  into  thee. 

The  song  might  or  might  not  have  been  mtended  in  com- 
piiment  to  the  fair  Julia,  for  so  I  found  his  partner  was 
called  ;  she,  however,  was  certainly  unconscious  of  any  such 


IVORIES  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


application  \  for  she  never  looked  at  the  singer,  but  kept  her 
eyes  cast  up  n  the  floor  ;  her  facj  was  suffused,  it  i~  true,  witb 
a  beautiful  blush,  and  there  wr.s  ^  gentle  heaving  <  "  the 
bosom,  but  all  that  was  doubtles^  caused  by  the  exercise  of 
the  dance  :  indeed,  so  great  was  her  indifference,  th^t  he 
was  amusing  herself  with  plucking  to  pieces  a  choice  bouquc! 
of  hot-house  flowers,  and  by  the  time  the  song  was  concluded 
the  nosegay  lay  in  ruins  on  the  floor. 

The  party  now  broke  up  the  night  with  the  kind-hearted 
old  custom  of  shaking  hands.  As  I  passed  through  the  hall  on 
my  way  to  my  chamber,  the  dying  embers  of  the  yule  cl  g  still 
sent  forth  a  dusky  glow  ;  and  had  it  not  been  the  season 
when  "  no  spirit  dares  stir  abroad,"  I  should  have  been  half 
tempted  to  steal  from  my  room  at  midnight,  and  peep  whether 
the  fairies  might  not  be  at  their  revels  about  the  heartn. 

My  chamber  was  in  the  old  part  of  the  mansion,  the  pon- 
derous furniture  of  which  might  have  been  fabricated  in  the 
days  of  the  giants.  The  room  was  panelled,  with  cornices 
of  heav^y  carved  work,  in  which  flowers  ancf  grotesque  faces 
were  strangely  intermingled,  and  a  row  of  black-looking  por» 
traits  stared  mournfully  at  me  from  the  walls.  The  bed  was 
of  rich,  though  faded  damask,  with  a  lofty  tester,  and  stood  in 
a  niche  opposite  a  bow-window.  I  had  scarcely  got  into  bed 
w^hen  a  strain  of  music  seemed  to  break  forth  in  the  air  just 
below  the  window  :  I  listened,  and  found  it  proceeded  from  a 
band,  which  I  concluded  to  be  the  waits  from  some  neighbor- 
ing village.  They  went  round  the  house,  playing  under  the 
windows.  I  drew  aside  the  curtains,  to  hear  them  more  dis- 
tinctly. The  moonbeams  fell  through  the  upper  part  of  the 
casement,  partially  lighting  up  the  antiquated  apartment.  The 
sounds,  as  they  receded,  became  more  soft  and  aerial,  and 
seemed  to  accord  with  quiet  and  moonlight.  I  listened  and 
listened — they  became  more  and  more  tender  and  remote, 
and,  as  they  gradually  died  away,  my  head  sank  upoa  the 
pillow,  and  I  fell  asleep. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON.  GENT.  5,09 


CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

Dark  and  dull  night  flie  hence  away, 
And  give  the  honor  to  this  day 
That  sees  December  turn*d  to  May. 

«         »  «  »         ^  * 

Why  does  the  chilling  winter's  morne 
Smile  like  a  field  beset  with  corn  ? 
Or  smell  like  to  a  meade  new-shorne, 
Thus  on  a  sudden  ? — -come  and  see 
The  cause,  why  things  thus  fragrant  be. 

Herrick. 

When  I  woke  the  next  morning,  it  seemed  as  if  all  the 
events  of  the  preceding  evening  had  been  a  dream,  and  noth- 
ing but  the  identity  of  the  ancient  chamber  convinced  me  of 
their  reality.  While  I  lay  musing  on  my  pillow,  I  heard  the 
sound  of  little  feet  pattering  outside  of  the  door,  and  a  whis- 
pering consultation.  Presently  a  choir  of  small  voices  chanted 
forth  an  old  Christmas  carol,  the  burden  of  which  was — 

Rejoice,  our  Saviour  he  was  born 
On  Christmas  day  in  the  morning. 

I  rose  softly,  slipt  on  my  clothes,  opened  the  door  suddenly, 
and  beheld  one  of  the  most  beautiful  little  fairy  groups  that  a 
painler  could  imagine.  It  consisted  of  a  boy  and  two  girls, 
the  eldest  not  more  than  six,  and  lovely  as  seraphs.  They  were 
going  the  rounds  of  the  house,  singing  at  every  chamber  door, 
but  my  sudden  appearance  frightened  them  into  mute  bash- 
tulness.  They  remained  for  a  moment  playing  on  their  lips 
with  their  fingers,  and  now  and  then  stealing  a  shy  glance 
from  under  their  eyebrows,  until,  as  if  by  one  impulse,  they 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


scampered  away,  and  as  they  turned  an  angle  of  the  gallery,  I 
neard  them  laughing  in  triumph  at  their  escape. 

Everything  conspired  to  produce  kind  and  happy  feelings^ 
in  this  stronghold  of  old-fashioned  hospitality.  The  window 
of  my  chamber  looked  out  upon  what  in  summer  would  have 
been  a  beautiful  landscape.  There  was  a  sloping  lawn,  a  fine 
stream  winding  at  the  foot  of  it,  and  a  tract  of  park  bevond, 
with  noble  clumps  of  trees,  and  herds  of  deer.  At  a  distance 
was  a  neat  hamlet,  with  the  smoke  from  the  cottage  chim- 
neys hanging  over  it ;  and  a  church,  with  its  dark  spire  in  strong 
relief  against  the  clear  cold  sky.  The  house  was  surrounded 
with  evergreens,  according  to  the  English  custom,  which  would 
have  given  almost  an  appearance  of  summer;  but  the  morning, 
was  extremely  frosty  ;  the  light  vapor  of  the  preceding  evening 
had  been  precipitated  by  the  cold,  and  covered  all  the  trees 
and  every  blade  of  grass  with  its  fine  crystallizations.  The 
rays  of  a  bright  morning  sun  had  a  dazzling  effect  among  the 
glittering  foliage.  A  robin  perched  upon  the  top  of  a  moun- 
tain ash,  that  hung  its  clusters  of  red  berries  just  before  my 
window,  was  basking  himself  in  the  sunshine,  and  piping  a 
few  querulous  notes  ;  and  a  peacock  was  displaying  all  the 
glories  of  his  train,  and  strutting  with  the  pride  and  gravity  of 
a  Spanish  grandee  on  the  terrace-walk  below. 

I  had  scarcely  dressed  myself,  when  a  servant  appeared  to 
invite  me  to  family  prayers.  He  showed  me  the  way  to  a 
small  chapel  in  the  old  wing  of  the  house,  where  I  found  the 
principal  part  of  the  family  already  assembled  in  a  kind  of 
gallery,  furnished  with  cushions,  hassocks,  and  large  prayer- 
books  ;  the  servants  were  seated  on  benches  below.  The  old 
gentleman  read  prayers  from  a  desk  in  front  of  the  gallery^ 
and  Master  Simon  acted  as  clerk  and  made  the  responses  ; 
and  I  must  do  him  the  justice  to  say,  that  he  acquitted  himself 
with  great  gravity  and  decorum. 

The  service  was  followed  by  a  Christmas  carol,  which  Mr. 
Bracebridge  himself  had  constructed  from  a  poem  of  his 
tavorite  author,  Herrick  ;  and  it  had  been  adapted  to  a  churcw 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  211 


melody  by  Master  Simon.  As  there  were  several  good  voices 
among  the  household,  the  effect  was  extremely  pleasing  ;  but 
I  was  particularly  gratified  by  the  exaltation  of  heart,  and  sud- 
den sally  of  grateful  feeling,  with  which  the  worthy  'Squire 
delivered  one  stanza  ;  his  eye  glistening,  and  his  voice  ram- 
bling out  of  all  the  bounds  of  time  and  tune  : 

"Tis  thou  that  crown/st  my  glittering  hearth 
With  guiltless  mirth, 
And  giv'st  me  Wassaile  bowles  to  drink 
Spic'd  to  the  brink  : 

Lord,  'tis  thy  plenty-dropping  han^* 

That  soiles  my  land  : 
And  giv'st  me  for  my  bushell  sowne, 

Twice  ten  for  one." 

I  afterwards  understood  that  early  morning  service  was  read 
<5n  every  Sunday  and  saint's  day  throughout  the  year,  either  by 
Mr.  Bracebridge  or  some  member  of  the  family.  It  was  once 
almost  universally  the  case  at  the  seats  of  the  nobility  and 
gentry  of  England,  and  it  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  the 
custom  is  falling  into  neglect ;  for  the  dullest  observer  must 
be  sensible  of  the  order  and  serenity  prevalent  in  those  house- 
holds, where  the  occasional  exercise  of  a  beautiful  form  of 
worship  in  the  morning  gives,  as  it  were,  the  key-note  to  every 
temper  for  the  day,  and  attunes  every  spirit  to  harmony. 

Our  breakfast  consisted  of  what  the  'Squire  denominated 
nrue  old  English  fare.  He  indulged  in  some  bitter  lamenta- 
tions over  modern  breakfasts  of  tea  and  toast,  which  he  cen- 
sured as  among  the  causes  of  modern  effeminacy  and  weak 
nerves,  and  the  decline  of  old  English  heartiness  :  and  though 
he  admitted  them  to  his  table  to  suit  the  palates  of  his  guests, 
yet  there  was  a  brave  display  of  cold  meats,  wine,  and  ale,  on 
the  sideboard. 

After  Lreakfast,  I  walked  about  the  grounds  with  Frank 
Bracebridge  and  Master  Simon,  or  Mr.  Simon,  as  he  was 
called  by  everybody  but  the  Squire.    We  were  escorted  by 


WORKS  OF  IVASHINGTON  IRVING. 


a  number  of  gentlemen-like  dogs,  that  seemed  loungers  about 
the  esiabiishment ;  from  the  frisking  spaniel  to  the  steady  old 
stag-hound — the  last  of  which  was  of  a  race  that  had  been  in 
the  family  time  out  of  mind — they  were  all  obedient  to  a  dog- 
whistle  which  hung  to  Master  Simon's  button-hole,  and  in 
the  midst  of  their  gambols  would  glance  an  eye  occasionally 
upon  a  small  switch  he  carried  in  his  hand. 

The  old  mansion  had  a  still  more  venerable  look  in  the 
yellow  sunshine  than  by  pale  moonlight;  and  I  could  not  but 
feel  the  force  of  the  'Squire's  idea,  that  the  formal  terraces, 
heavily  moulded  balustrades,  and  clipped  yew  trees,  carried 
with  them  an  air  of  proud  aristocracy. 

There  appeared  to  be  an  unusual  number  of  peacocks  about 
the  place,  and  I  was  making  some  remarks  upon  what  I.  termed 
a  flock  of  them  that  were  basking  under  a  sunny  wall,  when 
I  was  gently  corrected  in  my  phraseology  by  Master  Simon, 
who  told  me  that  according  to  the  most  ancient  and  approved 
treatise  on  hunting,  I  must  say  a  muster  of  peacocks.  "  In 
the  same  way,"  added  he,  with  a  slight  air  of  pedantry,  "we 
saw  a  flight  of  doves  or  swallows,  a  bevy  >of  quails,  a  herd  of 
deer,  of  wrens,  or  cranes,  a  skulk  of  foxes,  or  a  building  of 
rooks."  He  went  on  to  inform  me  that,  according  to  Sir 
Anthony  Fitzherbert,  we  ought  to  ascribe  to  this  bird  "both 
understanding  and  glory  ;  for,  being  praised,  he  will  presently 
set  up  his  tail,  chiefly  against  the  sun,  to  the  intent  you  may 
the  better  behold  the  beauty  thereof.  But  at  the  fall  of  the 
leaf,  when  his  tail  faileth,  he  will  mourn  and  hide  himself  in 
corners,  till  his  tail  come  again  as  it  was." 

I  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  display  of  small  erudition  on 
so  whimsical  a  subject ;  but  I  found  that  the  peacocks  were 
birds  of  some  consequence  at  the  Hall ;  for  Frank  Bracebridge 
informed  me  that  they  were  great  favorites  with  his  father,  who- 
was  extremely  careful  to  keep  up  the  breed,  partly  because 
tbf^y  he.! on  zed  to  chivalry,  and  were  in  great  request  at  the 
stately  banquets  of  the  olden  time  ;  and  partly  because  they 
Uad  a  pom.p  and  magnificence  about  them  highly  becoming  an 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  *2i3 

Old  family  mansion.  Nothing,  he  was  accustomed  to  say,  had 
an  air  of  greater  state  and  dignity,  than  a  peacock  perched 
upon  an  antique  stone  ballustrade. 

Master  Simon  had  now  to  hurry  off,  having  an  appointment 
at  the  parish  church  with  the  village  choristers,  who  were  to 
perform  some  music  of  his  selection.  There  was  something 
extremely  agreeable  in  the  cheerful  flow  of  animal  spirits  of 
the  little  man  ;  and  I  confess  that  I  had  been  somewhat  sur- 
prised at  his  apt  quotations  from  authors  who  certainly  were 
not  in  the  range  of  every-day  reading.  I  mentioned  this  last 
circumstance  to  Frank  Bracebridge,  who  told  me  with  a  smile 
that  Master  Simon's  whole  stock  of  erudition  was  confined  to 
some  half-a-dozen  old  authors,  Vvdiich  the  'Squire  had  put  into 
his  hands,  and  which  he  read  over  and  over,  whenever  he  had 
a  studious  fit ;  as  he  sometimes  had  on  a  rainy  day,  or  a  long 
winter  evening.  Sir  Anthony  Fitzherbert's  Book  of  Hus- 
bandry ;  Markham's  Country  Contentments  ;  the  Tretyse  of 
Hunting,  by  Sir  Thomas  Cockayne,  Knight ;  Isaac  Walton's 
Angler,  and  two  or  three  more  such  ancient  worthies  of  the 
pen,  were  his  standard  authorities  ;  and,  like  all  men  who 
know  but  a  few  books,  he  looked  up  to  them  with  a  kind  of 
idolatry,  and  quoted  them  on  all  occasions.  As  to  his  songs, 
they  were  chiefly  picked  out  of  old  books  in  the  'Squire's 
library,  and  adapted  to  tunes  that  were  popular  among  the 
choice  spirits  of  the  last  century.  His  practical  application  oi 
scraps  of  literature,  however,  had  caused  him  to  be  looked  up- 
on as  a  prodigy  of  book-knowledge  by  all  the  grooms,  hunts- 
men, and  small  sportsmen  of  the  neighborhood.. 

While  we  were  talking,  we  heard  the  distant  toll  of  the 
village  bell,  and  I  was  told  that  the  'Squire  was  a  little  partic- 
ular in  having  his  household  at  church  on  a  Christmas  morn- 
ing ;  considering  it  a  day  of  pouring  out  cf  thanks  and  rejoic* 
ing  \  ior,  as  old  Tusser  observed, — 

"At  Christmas  be  merry,  and  thankful  withal 
And  feast  thy  good  neighbors,  the  great  with  the  sroalL** 


a  1 4  WO  R ICS  OF  WASHING  TON  IR  VING. 

If  you  are  disposed  to  go  to  church/'  said  Frank  Brace* 
bridge,  I  can  promise  you  a  specimen  of  my  cousin  Simon's 
musical  achievements.  As  the  church  is  destitute  of  an  organ, 
he  has  formed  a  band  from  the  village  amateurs,  and  established 
a  musical  club  for  their  improvement ;  he  has  also  sorted  a 
choir,  as  he  sorted  my  father's  pack  of  hounds,  according  ta 
the  directions  of  Jervaise  Markham,  in  his  Country  Content- 
ments ;  for  the  bass  he  has  sought  out  all  the  '  deep,  solemn 
mouths,'  and  for  the  tenor  the  *  loud  ringing  mouth,'  among 
the  country  bumpkins ;  and  for  <  sweet  mouths,'  he  has  culled 
vi\W\  curious  taste  among  the  prettiest  lassies  in  the  neighbor- 
hood :  though  these  last,  he  affirms,  are  the  most  difficult  to 
keep  in  tune ;  your  pretty  female  singer  being  exceedingly 
wayward  and  capricious,  and  very  liable  to  accident." 

As  the  morning,  though  frosty,  v/as  remarkably  fine  and 
clear,  the  most  of  the  family  walked  to  the  church,  which  was 
a  very  old  building  of  gray  stone,  and  stood  near  a  village, 
about  half  a  mile  from  the  park  gate.  Adjoining  it  was  a 
low  snug  parsonage,  which  seemed  coeval  with  the  church. 
The  front  of  it  was  perfectly  matted  with  a  yew  tree,  that  had 
been  trained  against  its  walls,  through  the  dense  foliage  of 
which,  apertures  had  been  formed  to  admit  light  into  the  small 
antique  lattices.  As  we  passed  this  sheltered  nest,  the  parson 
issued  forth  and  preceded  us. 

I  had  expected  to  see  a  sleek  well-conditioned  pastor,  such 
as  is  often  found  in  a  snug  living  in  the  vicinity  of  a  rich 
patron's  table,  but  I  was  disappointed.  The  parson  was  a 
little  meagre,  black-looking  man,  with  a  grizzled  wig  that  was 
too  wide,  and  stood  off  from  each  ear  ;  so  that  his  head  seem- 
ed to  have  shrunk  away  within  it,  like  a  dried  filbert  in  its 
shell.  He  wore  a  rusty  coat,  with  great  skirts,  and  pockets 
that  would  have  held  the  church  bible  and  prayer-book  .  and 
his  small  legs  seemed  still  smaller,  from  bemg  planted  in 
large  shoes,  decorated  with  enormous  buckles. 

I  was  informed  by  Frank  Bracebridge  that  the  parson  had 
been  a  chum  of  his  father's  at  Oxford,  and  had  received  this 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.     21 J 

living  shortly  after  the  latter  had  come  to  his  estate.  He  was 
a  complete  black-letter  hunter,  and  would  scarcely  read  a  work 
printed  in  the  Roman  character.  The  editions  of  Caxton  and 
Wynkin  de  Worde  were  his  delight ;  and  he  was  indefatigable 
in  his  researches  after  such  old  English  writers  as  have 
fallen  into  oblivion  from  their  worthlessness.  In  deference, 
perhaps,  to  the  notions  of  Mr.  Bracebridge,  he  had  made  diligent 
investigations  into  the  festive  rites  and  holiday  customs  of 
former  times  ;  and  had  been  as  zealous  in  the  inquiry,  as  if  he 
had  been  a  boon  companion  ;  but  it  was  merely  with  that 
plodding  spirit  with  which  men  of  adust  temperament  follow 
up  any  track  of  study,  merely  because  it  is  denominated  learn- 
ing ;  indifferent  to  its  intrinsic  nature,  whether  it  be  the  illustra- 
tion of  the  wisdom,  or  of  the  ribaldry  and  obscenity  of  antiquity.. 
He  had  pored  over  these  old  volumes  so  intensely,  that  they 
seemed  to  have  been  reflected  into  his  countenance  ;  which,  if 
the  face  be  indeed  an  index  of  the  mind,  might  be  compared  ta 
a  title-page  of  black-letter. 

On  reaching  the  church-porch,  we  found  fhe  parson  rebuk- 
ing the  gray-headed  sexton  for  having  used  mistletoe  among 
the  greens  with  which  the  church  was  decorated.  It  was,, 
he  observed,  an  unholy  plant,  profane  by  having  been  used 
by  the  Druids  in  their  mystic  ceremonies  ;  and  though  it  might 
be  innocently  employed  in  the  festive  ornamenting  of  halls  and 
kitchens,  yet  it  had  been  deemed  by  the  Fathers  of  the  Church 
as  unhallowed,  and  totally  unfit  for  sacred  purposes.  So  ten- 
acious was  he  on  this  point,  that  the  poor  sexton  was  obliged 
to  strip  down  a  great  part  of  the  humble  trophies  of  his  taste, 
before  the  parson  would  consent  to  enter  upon  the  service  of 
the  day. 

The  interior  of  the  church  was  venerable,  but  simple  ;  on 
the  walls  were  several  mural  monuments  of  the  Bracebridges, 
and  just  beside  the  altar,  was  a  tomb  of  ancient  workmanship, 
on  which  lay  the  effigy  of  a  warrior  in  armor,  with  his  legs 
crossed,  a  sign  of  his  having  been  a  crusader.  I  was  told  it 
was  one  of  the  family  >ha  had  signalized  himself  in  the  Holy 


526 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 


Land,  and  the  same  whose  picture  hung  over  the  fire-place  lit 
the  halh 

During  service,  Master  Simon  stood  up  in  the  pew,  and 
repeated  the  responses  very  audibly ;  evincing  that  kind  of 
ceremonious  devotion  punctually  observed  by  a  gentleman  of  the 
old  school,  and  a  man  of  old  family  connexions.  I  observed, 
too,  that  he  turned  over  the  leaves  of  a  folio  prayer-book  with 
something  of  a  flourish,  possibly  to  show  off  an  enormous  seal- 
ring  which  enriched  one  of  his  fingers,  and  which  had  the  look 
'Of  a  family  relic.  But  he  was  evidently  most  solicitous  about 
the  musical  part  of  the  service,  keeping  his  eye  fixed  intently 
on  the  choir,  and  beating  time  with  much  gesticulation  and 
emphasis. 

The  orchestra  was  in  a  small  gallery,  and  presented  a  most 
whimsical  grouping  of  heads,  piled  one  above  the  other,  among 
which  I  particularly  noticed  that  of  the  village  tailor,  a  pale 
fellow  with  a  retreating  forehead  and  chin,  who  played  on  the 
clarionet,  and  seemed  to  have  blown  his  face  to  a  point ;  and 
there  was  another,  a  short  pursy  man,  stooping  and  laboring 
at  a  bass  vioj,  so  as  to  show  nothing  but  the  top  of  a  round 
bald  head,  like  the  egg  of  an  ostrich.  There  were  two  or  three 
pretty  faces  among  the  female  singers,  to  which  the  keen  air 
of  a  frosty  morning  had  given  a  bright  rosy  tint :  but  the  gentle- 
men choristers  had  evidently  been  chosen,  like  old  Cremona 
fiddles,  more  for  tone  than  looks;  and  as  several  had  to  sing 
from  the  same  book,  there  were  clusterings  of  odd  physiogno- 
mies, not  unlike  those  groups  of  cherubs  we  sometimes  see  on 
country  tombstones. 

The  usual  services  of  the  choir  were  managed  tolerably 
well,  the  vocal  parts  generally  lagging  a  little  behind  the  in- 
strumental, and  some  loitering  fiddler  now  and  then  making  up 
for  lost  time  by  travelling  over  a  passage  with  prodigious  c  r- 
ity,  and  clearing  more  bars  than  the  keenest  fox-hunter,  to  be 
in  at  the  death.  But  the  great  trial  was  an  anthem  that  had  been 
prepared  and  arranged  by  Master  Simon,  and  on  which  he 
had  founded  great  expectation.  Unluckily  there  was  a  blunder 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  217 

at  the  very  outset — the  musicians  became  flurried  ;  Master 
Simon  was  in  a  fever  ;  ever3  thing  went  on  lamely  and  irregu- 
larly, until  they  came  to  a  chorus  beginning,  "  Now  let  us 
sing  with  one  accord,"  which  seemed  to  be  a  signal  for  parting 
company  :  all  became  discord  and  confusion  ;  each  shifted  for 
himself,  and  got  to  the  end  as  well,  or,  rather,  as  soon  as  he 
could  ;  excepting  one  old  chorister,  in  a  pair  of  horn  spectacles^ 
bestriding  and  pinching  a  long  sonorous  nose  ;  who,  happening 
to  stand  a  little  apart,  and  being  wrapped  up  in  his  own  melody^ 
kept  on  a  quavering  course,  wriggling  his  head,  ogling  his 
book,  and  winding  all  up  by  a  nasal  solo  of  at  least  three  bars^ 
duration. 

The  parson  gave  us  a  most  erudite  sermon  on  the  rites  and 
ceremonies  of  Christmas,  and  the  propriety  of  observing  it, 
not  merely  as  a  day  of  thanksgiving,  but  of  rejoicing  ;  support- 
ing the  correctness  of  his  opinions  by  the  earliest  usages  of 
the  church,  and  enforcing  them  by  the  authorities  of  Theophi- 
lus  of  Cesarea,  St.  Cyprian,  St.  Chrysostom,  St.  Augustine,  and 
a  cloud  more  of  Saints  and  Fathers,  from, whom  he  made  copi- 
ous quotations.  1  was  a  little  at  a  loss  to  perceive  the  necessity 
of  such  a  mighty  array  of  forces  to  maintain  a  point  which  ncK 
one  present  seemed  inclined  to  dispute ;  but  I  soon  found 
that  the  good  man  had  a  legion  of  ideal  adversaries  to  contend 
with  ;  having,  in  the  course  of  his  researches  on  the  subject  of 
Christmas,  got  completely  embroiled  in  the  sectarian  controver- 
sies of  the  Revolution,  when  the  Puritans  made  such  a  fierce 
assault  upon  the  ceremonies  of  the  church,  and  poor  old  Christ- 
mas w^as  driven  out  of  the  land  by  proclamation  of  Parliament.* 

*  From  the  "  Flying  Eagle,"  a  small  Gazette,  published  December  24th,. 
1652 — The  House  spent  much  time  this  day  about  the  business  of  the 
Navy,  for  settling  the  affairs  at  sea,  and  before  they  rose,  were  presented 
with  a  terrible  remonstrance  against  Christmas  day,  grounded  upon  divine 
Scriptures,  2  Cor.  v,  16.  i  Cor.  xv.  14.  17;  and  in  honour  of  the  Lord*s 
Day,  grounded  upon  these  Scriptures.  John  xx.  i.  Rev.  i.  10.  Psalms,  cxviii. 
24.  Lev.  XX.  iii.  7,  II.  Mark  xv.  8.  Psalms,  Ixxxiv.  10;  in  which  Christmas  i& 
called  Anti-christ's  masse,  and  those  Masse-mongers  and  Papists  who  ol>' 


^  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


The  worthy  parson  lived  but  with  times  past,  and  knew  but 
little  of  the  present. 

Shut  up  among  worm-eaten  tomes  in  the  retirement  of  his 
antiquated  little  study,  the  pages  of  old  times  w^ere  to  him  as 
th .  gazettes  of  the  day  ;  while  the  era  of  the  Revolution  was 
mer?  modern  history.  He  forgot  that  nearly  two  centuries 
had  elapsed  since  the  fiery  persecution  of  poor  mince-pie 
throughout  the  land  ;  when  plum  porridge  was  denounced  as 
mere  popery,"  and  roast  beef  as  anti-christian  ;  and  that 
Christmas  had  been  brought  in  again  triumphantly  with  the 
merry  court  of  King  Charles  at  the  Restoration.  He  kindled 
into  warmth  with  the  ardor  of  his  contest,  and  the  host  of 
imaginary  foes  with  whom  he  had  to  combat ;  he  had  a  stub- 
born conflict  with  old  Prynne  and  two  or  three  other  forgotten 
champions  of  the  Round  Heads,  on  the  subject  of  Christmas 
festivity  ;  and  concluded  by  urging  his  hearers,  in  the  most 
solemn  and  affecting  manner,  to  stand  to  the  traditional  cus- 
toms of  their  fathers,  and  feast  and  make  merry  on  this  joyful 
anniversary  of  the  church. 

I  have  seldom  known  a  sermon  attended  apparently  with 
more  immediate  effects  ;  for  on  leaving  the  church,  the  con- 
gregation seemed  one  and  all  possessed  with  the  gayety  of 
spirit  so  earnestly  enjoined  by  their  pastor.  The  elder  folks 
gathered  in  knots  in  the  churchyard,  greeting  and  shaking 
hands  ;  and  the  children  ran  about  crying,  "  Ule  !  Ule  !  and 
repeating  some  uncouth  r?iymes,*  which  the  parson,  who  had 
joined  us,  informed  me,  had  been  handed  down  from  days  of 
yore.  The  villagers  doffed  their  hats  to  the  'Squire  as  he 
passed,  giving  him  the  good  wishes  of  the  season  with  every 

-serve  it,  &c.  In  consequence  of  which  Parliament  spent  some  time  in  con- 
sultation about  the  abolition  of  Christmas  day,  passed  orders  to  that  effect, 
and  resolved  to  sit  on  the  following  day  which  was  commonly  called  Christ 
anas  day." 

"Ule  !  Ule  ! 

Three  puddings  in  a  pule ; 
Crack  nuts  and  cry  ule  I " 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYOM,  GEISTT.  219 

appearance  of  heartfelt  sincerity,  and  were  invited  by  him  to 
the  hall,  to  take  something  to  keep  out  the  cold  of  the  weather  ; 
and  I  heard  blessings  uttered  by  several  of  the  poor,  which 
convinced  me  that,  in  the  midst  of  his  enjoyments,  the  worthy 
old  cavalier  had  not  forgotten  the  true  Christmas  virtue  of 
charity. 

On  our  way  homeward,  his  heart  seemed  overflowing 
with  generous  and  happy  feelings.  As  we  passed  over  a  ris- 
ing ground  which  commanded  something  of  a  prospect,  the 
sounds  of  rustic  merriment  now  and  then  reached  our  ears  ; 
the  ^Squire  paused  for  a  few  moments,  and  looked  around 
with  an  air  of  inexpressible  benignity.  The  beauty  of  the 
day  was,  of  itself,  sufficient  to  inspire  philanthropy.  Notwith- 
standing the  frostiness  of  the  morning,  the  sun  in  his  cloudless 
journey"  had  acquired  sufficient  power  to  melt  away  the  thin 
covering  of  snow  from  every  southern  declivity,  and  to  bring 
out  the  living  green  which  adorns  an  English  landscape  even 
in  mid-winter.  Large  tracts  of  smiling  verdure,  contrasted 
with  the  dazzling  whiteness  of  the  shaded  slopes  and  hollows. 
Every  sheltered  bank,  on  which  the  broad  rays  rested,  yielded 
its  silver  rill  of  cold  and  limpid  water,  glittering  through  the 
dripping  grass  ;  and  sent  up  slight  exhalations  to  contribute 
to  the  thin  haze  that  hung  just  above  the  surface  of  the  earth. 
There  was  something  truly  cheering  in  this  triumph  of  warmth 
and  verdure  over  the  frosty  thraldom  of  winter  ;  it  was,  as 
the  'Squire  observed,  an  emblem  of  Christmas  hospitality, 
breaking  through  the  chills  of  ceremony  and  selfishness,  and 
thawing  every  heart  into  a  flow.  He  pointed  with  pleasure  to 
the  indications  of  good  cheer  reeking  from  the  chimneys  of 
the  comfortable  farm-houses,  and  low  thatched  cottages. 
"  I  love,''  said  he,  to  see  this  day  well  kept  by  rich  and 
poor ;  it  is  a  great  thing  to  have  one  day  in  the  year,  at  least, 
when  you  are  sure  of  being  welcome  wherever  you  go,  and  of 
having,  as  it  were,  the  world  all  thrown  open  to  you  ;  and  I 
am  almost  disposed  to  join  with  poor  Robin,  in  his  maledic* 
tion  on  every  churlish  enemy  to  this  honest  festival : 


^20 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


"*"Those  who  at  Christmas  do  repine, 
And  would  fain  hence  de^spatch  him, 
May  they  with  old  duke  Humphry  dine, 
Or  else  may  'Squire  Ketch  catch  him.' " 

The  'Squire  went  on  to  lament  the  deplorable  decay  of 
the  games  and  amusements  which  were  once  prevalent  at  this 
season  among  the  lower  orders,  and  countenanced  by  the 
higher  ;  when  the  old  halls  of  castles  and  manor-houses  were 
thrown  open  at  day-light  ;  when  the  tables  were  covered  with 
brawn,  and  beef,  and  humming  ale  ;  when  the  harp  and  the 
carol  resounded  all  day  long,  and  when  rich  and  poor  were 
alike  welcome  to  enter  and  make  merry.*  Our  old  games  and 
local  customs,*'  said  he,  "  had  a  great  effect  in  making  the 
peasant  fond  of  his  home,  and  the  promotion  of  them  by  the 
gentry  made  him  fond  of  his  lord.  They  made  the  times 
merrier,  and  kinder,  and  better,  and  I  can  truly  say  with  one 
of  our  old  poets, 

*'  I  like  them  well — the  curious  preciseness 
And  all-pretended  gravity  of  those 
That  seek  to  banish  hence  these  harmless  sports, 
Have  thrust  away  much  ancient  honesty." 

**The  nation,"  continued  he,  "is  altered  ;  we  have  almost 
lost  our  simple  true-hearted  peasantry.  They  have  broken 
asunder  from  the  higher  classes,  and  seem  to  think  their  inter- 
ests are  separate.  They  have  become  too  knowing,  and  begin 
TO  read  newspapers,  listen  to  alehouse  politicians,  and  talk  of 
reform.  I  think  one  mode  to  keep  them  in  good  humor  in 
these  hard  times,  would  be  for  the  nobility  and  gentry  to  pass 
more  time  on  their  estates,  mingle  more  among  the  country 
people,  and  set  the  merry  old  English  games  going  again." 

Such  was  the  good  'Squire's  project  for  mitigating  public 

*"An  English  gentleman  at  the  opening  of  the  great  day, /.<f.  on 
Christmas  day  in  the  morning,  had  all  his  tenants  and  neighbors  enter 
his  hall  by  day-break.  The  strong  beer  was  broached,  and-the  black  jacks 
went  plentifully  about  with  toast,  sugar,  and  nutmeg  and  good  Cheshire 
cheese.  The  Hackin  (the  great  sausage)  must  be  boiled  by  day-break,  or 
«lse  two  young  men  must  take  the  maiden  {i.e.  the  cook)  by  the  arms  and 
yun  her  round  the  market  place  till  she  is  shamed  of  her  laziness." — Rouna 
4^b<mi  our  Sea- Coal  Fire. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  221 


discontent  :  and,  indeed,  he  had  once  attempted  to  put  his- 
doctrine  in  practice,  and  a  few  years  before  had  kept  open 
house  during  the  holidays  in  the  old  style.  The  country 
people,  however,  did  not  understand  how  to  play  their  parts 
in  the  scene  of  hospitality ;  many  uncouth  circumstances 
occurred  ;  the  manor  was  overrun  by  all  the  vagrants  of  the 
country,  and  more  beggars  drawn  into  the  neighborhood  in 
one  week  than  the  parish  officers  could  get  rid  of  in  a  year. 
Since  then,  he  had  contented  himself  with  inviting  the  decent 
part  of  the  neighboring  peasantry  to  call  at  the  Hall  on  Christ- 
mas day,  and  with  distributing  beef,  and  bread,  and  ale,  among 
the  poor,  that  they  might  make  merry  in  their  own  dwellings. 

We  had  not  been  long  home,  when  the  sound  of  music 
was  heard  from  a  distance.  A  band  of  country  lads,  without 
coats,  their  shirt-sleeves  fancifully  tied  with  ribbons,  their  hats 
decorated  with  greens,  and  clubs  in  their  hands,  were  seen  ad- 
vancing up  the  avenue,  followed  by  a  large  number  of  vil- 
lagers and  peasantry.  They  stopped  before  the  hall  door, 
where  the  music  struck  up  a  peculiar  air,  and  the  lads  performed 
a  curious  and  intricate  dance,  advancing,  retreating,  and 
striking  their  clubs  together,  keeping  exact  time  to  the  music 
while  one,  whimsically  crowned  with  a  fox's  skin,  the  tail  of 
which  flaunted  down  his  back,  kept  capering  round  the  skirts 
of  the  dance,  and  rattling  a  Christmas-box  with  many  antic 
gesticulations. 

The  'Squire  eyed  this  fanciful  exhibition  with  great  inter- 
est and  delight,  and  gave  me  a  full  account  of  its  origin,  which 
'he  traced  to  tlie  times  when  the  Romans  held  possession  of 
the  island ;  plainly  proving  that  this  was  a  lineal  descendant 
of  the  sword-dance  of  the  ancients.  "  It  was  now,"  he  said, 
nearly  extinct,  but  he  had  accidentally  met  with  traces  of  it 
in  the  neighborhood,  and  had  encouraged  its  revival  ;  though, 
to  tell  the  truth,  it  was  too  apt  to  be  followed  up  by  rough 
cudgel-play,  and  broken  heads,  in  the  evening." 

After  the  dance  was  concluded,  the  whole  party  was  en- 
tertained with  brawn  and  beef,  and  stout  home-brewed.  The 
^Squire  himself  mingled  among  the  rustics,  and  was  received  with 


722 


WO  R  ICS  OF  WASHING  TON  IRVING, 


awkward  demonstrations  of  deference  and  regard.  It  is  true, 
I  perceived  t-wo  or  three  of  the  younger  peasants,  as  ihey  were 
raising  their  tankards  to  their  mouths,  when  the  'Squire's 
back  was  turned,  making  something  of  a  grimace,  and  giving 
each  other  the  wink  ;  but  the  moment  they  caught  my  eye 
they  pulled  grave  faces,  and  were  exceedingly  demure.  With 
Master  Simon,  however,  they  all  seemed  more  at  their  ease. 
His  varied  occupations  and  amusements  had  made  him  well 
known  throughout  the  neighborhood.  He  was  a  visitor  at 
every  farm-house  and  cottage  ;  gossiped  with  the  farmers  and 
their  wives  ;  romped  with  their  daughters  ;  and,  like  that  type 
of  a  vagrant  bachelor  the  humble-bee,  tolled  the  sweets  from 
all  the  rosy  lips  of  the  country  round. 

The  bashfulness  of  the  guests  soon  gave  way  before  good 
cheer  and  affability.  There  is  something  genuine  and  affec- 
tionate in  the  gayety  of  the  lower  orders,  when  it  is  excited 
by  the  bounty  and  familiarity  of  those  above  them  ;  the  warm 
glow  of  gratitude  enters  into  their  mirth,  and  a  kind  word  or  a 
small  pleasantry  frankly  uttered  by  a  patron,  gladdens  the 
heart  of  the  dependant  more  than  oil  and  wine.  When  the 
'Squire  had  retired,  the  merriment  increased,  and  there  was 
much  joking  and  laughter,  particularly  between  Master  Simon 
and  a  hale,  ruddy-faced,  white-headed  farmer,  who  appeared 
to  be  the  wit  of  the  village ;  for  I  observed  all  his  com- 
panions to  wait  with  open  mouths  for  his  retorts,  and  burst 
Into  a  gratuitous  laugh  before  they  could  well  understand 
them. 

The  whole  house  indeed  seemed  abandoned  to  merriment ; 
as  I  passed  to  my  room  to  dress  for  dinner,  I  heard  the  sound 
of  music  in  a  small  court,  and  looking  through  a  window  that 
commanded  it,  I  perceived  a  band  of  wandering  musicians, 
with  pandean  pipes,  and  tambourine  ;  a  pretty  coquettish 
housemaid  was  dancing  a  jig  with  a  smart  country  lad,  while 
several  of  the  other  servants  were  looking  on.  In  the  midst 
of  her  sport,  the  girl  caught  a  glimpse  of  my  face  at  the  win- 
dow, and  coloring  up,  ran  off  with  an  air  of  roguish  aflfected 
confusion. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  22^ 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER. 

Lo,  now  is  come  our  joyful'st  feast  I 

Let  every  man  be  jolly, 
Each  roome  with  yvie  leaves  is  drest, 
And  every  post  with  holly. 

Now  all  our  neighbours'  chimneys  smoke, 
And  Christmas  blocks  are  burning; 

Their  ovens  they  with  bak't  meats  choke. 
And  all  their  spits  are  turning, 
Without  the  door  let  sorrow  lie. 
And  if,  for  cold,  it  hap  to  die, 
Wee  '1  bury  *t  in  a  Christmas  pye, 
And  evermore  be  merry. 

Withers,  Juvenilia. 

I  HAD  finished  my  toilet,  and  was  loitering  with  Frank 
Bracebridge  in  the  library,  when  we  heard  a  distant  thwack- 
ing sound,  which  he  informed  me  was  a  signal  for  the  serving 
up  of  the  dinner.  The  'Squire  kept  up  old  customs  in  kitchen 
as  well  as  hall ;  and  the  rolling-pin  struck  upon  the  dresser 
by  the  cook,  summoned  the  servants  to  carry  in  the  meats. 

Just  in  this  nick  the  cook  knock'd  thrice, 
And  all  the  waiters  in  a  trice, 

His  summons  did  obey  ; 
Each  serving  man,  with  dish  in  hand, 
Marched  boldly  up,  like  our  train  band, 

Presented,  and  away.* 

The  dinner  was  served  up  in  the  great  hall,  where  the 
^Squire  always  held  his  Christmas  banquet.    A  blazing  crack- 
ling fire  of  logs  had  been  heaped  on  to  warm  the  spacious 
*  Sir  John  Suckling. 


WORKS  OF  WASmJVGTOA^  IRVmC. 


apartment,  and  the  flame  went  sparkling  and  wreathing  up^ 
the  wide-mouthed  chimney.  The  great  picture  of  the^  cru- 
sader and  his  white  horse  had  been  profusely  decorated  with 
greens  for  the  occasion  ;  and  holly  and  ivy  had  likewise  been 
wreathed  round  the  helmet  and  weapons  on  the  opposite  wall,, 
which  I  understood  were  the  arms  of  the  same  warrior.  I 
must  own,  by  the  bye,  I  had  strong  doubts  about  the  authen- 
ticity of  the  painting  and  armor  as  having  belonged  to  the 
crusader,  they  certainly  having  the  stamp  of  more  recent 
days  ;  but  I  was  told  that  the  painting  had  been  so  considered 
time  out  of  mind ;  and  that,  as  to  the  armor,  it  had  been 
found  in  a  lumber-room,  and  elevated  to  its  present  situation 
by  the  'Squire,  who  at  once  determined  it  to  be  the  armor 
of  the  family  hero ;  and  as  he  was  absolute  authority  on 
all  such  subjects  in  his  own  household,  the  matter  had  passed 
into  current  acceptation.  A  sideboard  was  set  out  just  under 
this  chivalric  trophy,  on  which  was  a  display  of  plate  that 
might  have  vied  (at  least  in  variety)  with  Belshazzar's  parade 
of  the  vessels  of  the  temple  j  ^'  flagons,  cans,  cups,  beakers, 
goblets,  basins,  and  ewers  ;  "  the  gorgeous  utensils  of  good 
companionship  that  had  gradually  accumulated  through  many 
generations  of  jovial  housekeepers.  Before  these  stood  the 
two  yule  candies,  beaming  like  two  stars  of  the  first  magni- 
tude;  other  lights  were  distributed  in  branches,  and  the  whole 
array  glittered  like  a  firmament  of  silver. 

We  were  ushered  into  this  banqueting  scene  with  the 
sound  of  minstrelsy ;  the  old  harper  being  seated  on  a  stool 
beside  the  fire-place,  and  twanging  his  instrument  with  a  vast 
deal  more  power  than  melody.  Never- did  Christmas  board 
display  a  more  goodly  and  gracious  assemblage  of  counte- 
nances ;  those  who  were  not  handsome,  were,  at  least,  happy; 
and  happiness  is  a  rare  improver  of  your  hard-favored  visage. 
1  always  consider  an  old  English  family  as  well  v/orth  study 
ing  as  a  collection  of  Holbein's  portraits,  or  Albert  Du^-er's 
prints.  There  is  much  antiquarian  lore  to  be  acquired  ;  much 
knowledge  of  the  physiognomies  of  former  times.    Perhaps  it 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  225 

itiay  be  from  having  continually  before  their  eyes  those  rows  of 
old  family  portraits,  with  which  the  mansions  of  this  country  are 
stocked  ;  certam  it  is,  that  the  quaint  features  of  antiquity 
are  often  most  faithfully  perpetuated  in  these  ancient  lines  ; 
and  I  have  traced  an  old  family  nose  through  a  whole  picture- 
gallery,  legitimately  handed  down  from  generation  to  genera- 
tion, almost  from  the  time  of  the  Conquest.  Something  of 
the  kind  was  to  be  observed  in  the  worthy  company  around 
me.  Many  of  their  faces  had  evidently  originated  in  a  Gothic 
age,  and  been  merely  copied  by  succeeding  generations  ;  and 
there  was  one  little  girl,  in  particular,  of  staid  demeanor, 
with  a  high  Roman  nose,  and  an  antique  vinegar  aspect,  who 
was  a  great  favorite  of  the  'Squire's,  being,  as  he  said,  a 
Bracebridge  all  over,  and  the  very  counterpart  of  one  of  his 
ancestors  who  figured  in  the  Court  of  Henry  VIII. 

The  parson  said  grace,  which  was  not  a  short  familiar 
one,  such  as  is  commonly  addressed  to  the  Deity  in  these 
unceremonious  days  ;  but  a  long,  courtly,  well-worded  one 
of  the  ancient  school.  There  was  now  a  pause,  as  if  some- 
thing was  expected  ;  when  suddenly  the  butler  entered  the 
hall  with  some  degree  of  bustle  ;  he  was  attended  by  a  ser- 
vant on  each  side  with  a  large  wax-light,  and  bore  a  silver 
dish,  on  which  was  an  enormous  pig's  head,  decorated  with 
rosemary,  with  a  lemon  in  its  mouth,  which  was  placed  with 
great  form^ality  at  the  head  of  the  table.  The  moment  this 
pageant  made  its  appearance,  the  harper  struck  up  a  flourish  ; 
at  the  conclusion  of  wdiich  the  young  Oxonian,  on  receiving 
a  hint  from  the  'Squire,  gave,  with  an  air  of  the  most  comic 
j;ravity,  an  old  carol,  the  first  verse  of  which  was  as  follows  i 

Caput  apri  defero 

Reddens  laudes  Domino. 
The  boar's  head  in  hand  bring  I, 
With  garlands  gay  and  rosemary. 
I  pray  you  all  synge  merily 

Qui  estis  in  convivio. 

Though  prepared  tc  witness  many  of  these  little  ecceo* 


226  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 


tricities,  from  being  apprised  of  the  peculiar  hobby  of  mine 
host ;  yet,  I  confess,  the  parade  with  which  so  odd  a  dish 
was  introduced  somewhat  perplexed  me,  until  I  gathered 
from  the  conversation  of  the  'Squire  and  the  parson,  that  it 
was  meant  to  represent  the  bringing  in  of  the  boar's  head — a 
dish  fonr^erly  served  up  with  much  ceremony,  and  the  sound 
of  minstrelsy  and  song,  at  great  tables  on  Christmas  day.  "  I 
like  the  old  custom,"  said  the  'Squire,  not  merely  because 
it  is  stately  and  pleasing  in  itself,  but  because  it  was  observed 
at  the  college  at  Oxford,  at  which  I  was  educated.  When  I 
hear  the  old  song  chanted,  it  brings  to  mind  the  time  when 
I  was  young  and  gamesome — and  the  noble  old  college  hall 
— and  my  fellow-students  loitering  about  in  their  black  gowns  ; 
many  of  whom,  poor  lads,  are  now  in  their  graves  !  " 

The  parson,  however,  whose  mind  was  not  haunted  by 
such  associations,  and  who  was  always  more  taken  up  with 
the  text  than  the  sentiment,  objected  to  the  Oxonian's  version 
of  the  carol ;  \vhich  he  affirmed  was  different  from  that  sung 
at  college.  He  went  on,  with  the  dry  perseverance  of  a  com- 
mentator, to  give  the  college  reading,  accompanied  by  sundry 
annotations  ;  addressing  himself  at  first  to  the  co,mpany  at 
large ;  but  finding  their  attention  gradually  diverted  to  other 
talk,  and  other  objects,  he  lowered  his  tone  as  his  number  of 
auditors  diminished,  until  he  concluded  his  remarks  in  an 
under  voice,  to  a  fat-headed  old  gentleman  next  him,  who 
was  silently  engaged  in  the  discussion  of  a  huge  plateful  of 
turkey.* 

*  The  old  ceremony  of  serving  up  the  boar*s  head  on  Christmas  day, 
is  still  observed  in  the  hall  of  Queen's  College,  Oxford.  I  was  favored  by 
the  parson  with  a  copy  of  the  carol  as  now  sung,  and  as  it  may  be  accept- 
able to  such  of  my  readers  as  are  curious  in  these  grave  and  learned  mat- 
ters, I  give  it  entire  : 

The  boar's  head  in  hand  bear  I, 
Bedeck'd  wif.h  bays  and  rosemary  ; 
And  I  pray  you,  my  masters,  be  merry, 
Quot  estis  in  convivio. 
^  Caput  apri  defero. 

Reddens  laudes  Domini* 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  227 


The  table  was  literally  loaded  with  good  cheer,  and  pre- 
sented an  epitome  of  country  abundance,  in  this  season  of 
overflowing  larders.  A  distinguished  post  was  allotted  to 
ancient  sirloin,"  as  mine  host  termed  it  :  being,  as  he  added, 
the  standard  of  old  English  hospitality,  and  a  joint  of 
goodly  presence,  and  full  of  expectation."  There  were  several 
dishes  quaintly  decorated,  and  which  had  evidently  some- 
thing traditional  in  their  embellishments  ;  but  about  which, 
as  I  did  not  like  to  appear  over-curious,  I  asked  no  questions. 

I  could  not,  however,  but  notice  a  pie,  magnificently 
decorated  with  peacocks'  feathers,  in  imitation  of  the  tail  of 
that  bird,  which  overshadowed  a  considerable  tract  of  the 
table.  This,  the  'Squire  confessed,  with  some  little  hesi- 
tation, was  a  pheasant  pie,  though  a  peacock  pie  was  cer- 
tainly the  most  authentical ;  but  there  had  been  such  a  mor* 
tality  among  the  peacocks  this  season,  that  he  could  not 
prevail  upon  himself  to  have  one  killed.* 

It  would  be  tedious,  perhaps,  to  my  wiser  readers,  who 
may  not  have  that  foolish  fondness  for  odd  and  obsolete 

The  bear's  head,  as  I  understand, 
Is  the  rarest  dish  in  all  this  land, 
Which  thus  bedeck'd  with  a  gay  garland 
Let  us  servire  cantico. 

Caput  apri  defero,  &c. 

Our  stev,^ard  hath  provided  this 
In  honor  of  the  King  of  Bliss, 
Which  on  this  day  to  be  served  is 
In  Reginensi  Atrio. 
Caput  apri  defero, 

&c.,  &c.,  &c. 

*  The  peacock  was  anciently  in  great  demand  for  stately  entertain- 
ments. vSometimes  it  was  made  into  a  pie,  at  one  end  of  which  the  head 
appeared  above  th-  crust  in  all  its  plumage,  with  the  beak  richly  guilt; 
at  the  other  end  the  tail  was  displayed.  -  Sucli  pies  were  served  up  at  the 
solemn  banquets  of  chivalry,  when  Knights-errant  pledged  themselves  to 
undertake  any  perilous  enterprise,  whence  came  the  ancient  oath,  used 
by  Justice  Shallow,  "by  cock  and  pie  " 

The  peacock  was  also  an  important  dish  for  the  Christmas  feast ;  and 
Massinger,  in  his  City  Madam,  gives  some  idea  of  the  extravagance  with 


228 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


things  to  which  I  am  a  little  given,  were  I  to  mention  the 
other  make-shifts  of  this  worthy  old  humorist,  by  which  he- 
was  endeavoring  to  follow  up,  though  at  humble  distance^ 
the  quaint  customs  of  antiquity.  I  was  pleased,  however,  to 
see  the  respect  shown  to  his  whims  by  his  children  and  rela- 
tives ;  who,  indeed,  entered  readily  into  the  full  spirit  of 
them,  and  seemed  all  v/ell  versed  in  their  parts;  having 
doubtless  been  present  at  many  a  rehearsal.  I  was  amused, 
too,  at  the  air  of  profound  gravity  with  which  the  butler  and 
other  servants  executed  the  duties  assigned  them,  however 
eccentric.  They  had  an  old-fashioned  look  ;  having,  for  the- 
most  part,  been  brought  up  in  the  household,  and  grown  into 
keeping  with  the  antiquated  mansion,  and  the  humors  of 
its  lord  ;  and  most  probably  looked  upon  all  hi§  whimsical 
regulations  as  the  established  laws  of  honorable  house- 
keeping. 

When  the  cloth  was  removed,  the  butler  brought  in  a 
huge  silver  vessel,  of  rare  and  curious  workmanship,  which 
he  placed  before  the  'Squire.  Its  appearance  was  hailed' 
with  acclamation ;  being  the  Wassail  Bowl,  so  renowned  in 
Christmas  festivity.  The  contents  had  been  prepared  by 
the  'Squire  himself ;  for  it  was  a  beverage,  in  the  skilful  mix- 
ture of  which  he  particularly  prided  himself ;  alleging  that  it 
was  too  abstruse  and  complex  for  the  comprehension  of  an 
ordinary  servant.  It  was  a  potation,  indeed,  that  might  well 
make  the  heart  of  a  toper  leap  within  him  ;  being  composed 
of  the  richest  and  raciest  wines,  highly  spiced  and  sweetened^ 
with  roasted  apples  bobbing  about  the  surface.* 

which  this,  as  well  as  other  dishes,  was  prepared  for  the  gorgeous  revels- 
of  the  olden  times : 

Men  may  talk  of  Country  Christmasses. 

Their  thirty  pound  butter'd  eggs,  their  pies  of  carps'  tongues : 

Their  pheasants  drench'd  with  ambergris  :  the  carcases  of  three  fat  weth* 

ers  bruised  for  gravy  to  make  sauce  for  a  single  peacock  ! 
*  The  Wassail  Bowl  was  sometimes  composed  of  ale  instead  of  wine ; 
with  nutmeg,  sugar,  toast,  ginger,  and  roasted  crabs  ;  in  this  way  the  nut- 
brawn  beverage  is  still  prepared  in  some  old  families,  and  laund  the 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  229 

The  old  gentleman's  whole  countenance  beamed  with  a 
•serene  look  of  indwelling  delight,  as  he  stirred  this  mighty 
bowl.  Having  raised  it  to  his  lips,  with  a  hearty  wish  of  a 
merry  Christmas  to  all  present,  he  sent  it  brimming  round 
the  board,  for  everyone  to  follow  his  example  according  to 
the  primitive  style  ;  pronouncing  it  the  ancient  fountain  of 
good  feeling,  where  all  hearts  met  together."  * 

There  was  much  laughing  and  rallying,  as  the  honest 
emblem  of  Christmas  joviality  circulated,  and  was  kissed 
rather  coyly  by  the  ladies.  But  when  it  reached  Master 
Simon,  he  raised  it  in  both  hands,  and  with  the  air  of  a  boon 
companion,  struck  up  an  old  Wassail  Chanson  ; 

The  brown  bowle, 

The  merry  brown  bowle, 

As  it  goes  round  aboiit-a, 

Fill 

Still, 

Let  the  world  say  what  it  will. 
And  drink  your  fill  all  out-a. 

The  deep  canne, 

The  merry  deep  canne, 

As  thou  dost  freely  quaff-a. 

Sing 

Fling, 
Be  as  merry  as  a  king, 
And  sound  a  lusty  laugh-a.f 

hearth  of  substantial  farmers  at  Christmas.  It  is  also  called  Lamb's 
Wool,  and  it  is  celebrated  by  Herrick  m  his  Twelfth  Night  : 

Next  crowne  the  bowle  full 

With  gentle  Lamb's  Wool, 
Add  sugar,  nutmeg,  and  ginger, 

With  store  of  aie  too 

And  thus  ye  must  doe 
To  make  the  Wassaile  a  swinger. 

*  "  The  custon?*  of  drinking  out  of  the  same  cup  gave  place  to  each 
having  his  cup.  When  the  steward  came  to  the  doore  with  the  Wassel, 
he  was  to  cry  three  times,  Wassel y  Wassel ^  Wassel^  and  then  the  chappell 
(chaplain)  was  to  answer  with  a  song." — Archceologia, 

1  From  Poor  Robin's  Almanack. 


WORKS  OP  WASHINGTON  IRyjNG, 


Much  of  the  conversation  during  dinner  turned  upon* 
family  topics,  to  which  I  was  a  stranger.  There  was,  how- 
ever, a  great  deal  of  rallying  of  Master  Simon  about  some 
gay  widow,  with  whom  he  was  accused  of  having  a  flirtation. 
This  attack  was  commenced  by  the  ladies  ;  but  it  was  con- 
'  tinned  throughout  the  dinner  by  the  fat-headed  old  gentle- 
man next  the  parson,  with  the  persevering  assiduity  of  a  slow 
hound  ;  being  one  of  these  long-winded  jokers,  who,  though 
rather  dull  at  starting  game,  are  unrivalled  for  their  talents 
in  hunting  it  down.  At  every  pause  in  the  general  con- 
versation, he  renewed  his  bantering  in  pretty  much  the  same 
terms ;  winking  hard  at  me  with  both  eyes,  whenever  he  gave 
Master  Simon  what  he  considered  a  home  thrust.  The  latter^ 
indeed,  seemed  fond  of  being  teased  on  the  subject,  as  old 
bachelors  are  apt  to  be  ;  and  he  took  occasion  to  inform  me, 
in  an  undertone,  that  the  lady  in  question  was  a  prodigiously 
fine  woman  and  drove  her  own  curricle. 

The  dinner-time  passed  away  in  this  flow  of  Innocent 
hilarity,  and  though  the  old  hall  may  have  resounded  in  its 
time  with  many  a  scene  of  broader  rout  and  revel,  yet  I  doubt 
whether  it  ever  witnessed  more  honest  and  genuine  enjoyment. 
How  easy  it  is  for  one  benevolent  being  to  diffuse  pleasure 
around  him  ;  and  how  truly  is  a  kind  heart  a  fountain  of 
gladness,  making  everything  in  its  vicmity  to  freshen  into 
smiles  !  The  joyous  disposition  of  th^  worthy  'Squire  was 
perfectly  contagious  ;  he  was  happy  himself,  and  disposed 
to  make  all  the  world  happy  ;  and  the  little  eccentricities  of 
his  humor  did  but  season,  in  a  manner,  the  sweetness  of 
his  philanthropy. 

When  the  ladies  had  retired,  the  conversation,  as  usual, 
became  still  more  animated  :  many  good  things  were  broached 
which  had  been  thought  of  during  dinner,  but  which  would 
not  exactly  do  for  a  lady's  ear ;  and  though  I  cannot  pos- 
itively affirm  that  there  was  much  wit  uttered,  yet  I  have  cer- 
tainly heard  many  contests  of  rare  wit  produce  much  less 
laughter.    Wit,  after  all,  is  a  mighty  tart,  pungent  ingredient, 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  231 


and  much  too  acid  for  some  stomachs  ;  but  honest  good- 
humor  is  the  oil  and  wine  of  a  merry  meeting,  and  there  is 
no  jovial  companionship  equal  to  that,  where  the  jokes  are 
rather  small,  and  the  laughter  abundant. 

The  'Squire  told  several  long  stories  of  early  college 
pranks  and  adventures,  in  some  of  which  the  parson  had 
been  a  sharer ;  though  in  looking  at  the  latter,  it  required 
some  effort  of  imagination  to  figure  such  a  little  dark  anatomy 
of  a  man,  into  the  perpetrator  of  a  madcap  gambol.  Indeed^ 
the  two  college  chums  presented  pictures  of  what  men  may 
be  made  by  their  different  lots  in  life :  the  'Squire  had  left 
the  university  to  live  lustily  on  his  paternal  domains,  in  the 
'  vigorous  enjoyment  of  prosperity  and  sunshine,  and  had 
flourished  on  to  a  hearty  and  florid  old  age  ;  whilst  the  poor 
'  parson,  on  the  contrary,  had  dried  and  withered  away,  among 
\    dusty  tomes,  in  the  silence  and  shadows  of  his  study.  Still 
'   there  seemed  to  be  a  spark  of  almost  extinguished  fire,  feebly 
glimmering  in  the  bottom  of  his  soul  \  and,  as  the  'Squire 
hinted  at  a  sly  story  of  the  parson  and  a  pretty  milkmaid 
*  whom  they  once  met  on  the  banks  of  the  Isis,  the  old  gentle- 
^  man  made  an  "  alphabet  of  faces,"  which,  as  far  as  I  could 
decipher  his  physiognomy,  I  verily  believe  was  indicative  of 
laughter  ; — indeed,  I  have  rarely  met  with  an  old  gentleman 
that  took  absolute  offence  at  the  imputed  gallantries  of  his 
youth. 

I  I  found  the  tide  of  wine  and  wassail  fast  gaining  on  the 
dry  land  of  sober  judgment.  The  company  grew  merrier 
and  louder,  as  their  jokes  grew  duller.  Master  Simon  was 
in  as  chirping  a  humor  as  a  grasshopper  filled  with  dew  ; 
his  old  songs  grew  of  a  warmer  complexion,  and  he  began  to 
talk  maudlin  about  the  widow.  He  even  gave  a  long  song 
about  the  wooing  of  a  widow,  which  he  informed  me  he  had 
gathered  from  an  excellent  black-letter  work  entitled  "  Cupid's 
Solicitor  for  Love ; ''  containing  store  of  good  advice  for 
bachelors,  and  which  he  promised  to  lend  me ;  the  first  verse 
was  to  this  effect : 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON-  IRVIJVG 


He  that  will  woo  a  widow  must  not  dally, 
He  must  make  hay  while  the  sun  doth  shine 

He  must  not  stand  with  her,  shall  I,  shall  I, 
But  boldly  say,  Widow,  thou  must  be  mine. 

ihis  song  inspired  the  fat-headed  old  gentleman,  who 
fnade  several  attempts  to  tell  a  rather  broad  story  of  Joe 
Miller,  that  was  pat  to  the  purpose  ;  but  he  always  stuck  in 
the  middle,  ev^erybody  recollecting  the  latter  part  excepting 
himself.  The  parson,  too,  began  to  show  the  effects  of  good 
cheer,  having  gradually  settled  down  into  a  doze,  and  his  wig 
sitting  most  suspiciously  on  one  side.  Just  at  this  juncture, 
we  were  summoned  to  the  drawing-room,  and  I  suspect,  at 
the  private  instigation  of  mine  host,  whose  joviality  seemed 
always  tempered  with  a  proper  love  of  decorum. 

After  the  dinner-table  was  removed,  the  hall  was  given 
up  to  the  younger  members  of  the  family,  who,  prompted  to 
all  kind  of  noisy  mirth  by  the  Oxonian  and  Master  Simon, 
made  its  old  walls  ring  with  their  merriment,  as  they  played 
at  romping  games.  I  delight  in  witnessing  the  gambols  of 
children,  and  particularly  at  this  happy  holiday  season,  and 
could  not  help  stealing  out  of  the  drawing-room  on  hearing 
one  of  their  peals  of  laughter.  I  found  them  at  the  game  of 
blind-man's-buff.  Master  Simon,  who  was  the  leader  of  their 
xevels,  and  seemed  on  all  occasions  to  fulfil  the  office  of  that 
ancient  potentate,  the  Lord  of  Misrule,*  was  blinded  in  the 
irjdst  of  the  hall.  The  little  beings  were  as  busy  about  him 
as  the  mock  fairies  about  Falstaff  ;  pinching  him,  plucking 
at  the  skirts  of  his  coat,  and  tickling  him  with  straws.  One 
fine  blue-eyed  girl  of  about  thirteen,  with  her  flaxen  hair  all 
in  beautiful  confusion,  her  frolic  face  in  a  glow,  her  frock 
half  torn  off  her  shoulders,  a  complete  picture  of  a  romp^ 
was  the  chief  tormentor  ;  and  from  the  slyness  with  which 

*  At  Christmas  there  was  in  the  Kinges  house,  wheresoever  hee  was 
lodged,  a  lorde  of  misrule,  or  mayster  of  merie  disportes,  and  the  like 
iiad  ye  in  the  house  of  every  nobleman  of  honor ;  or  good  worshippe,  were 
lie  spirituall  or  temporal!, — Stow. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  233 

Master  Simon  avoided  the  smaller  game,  and  hemmed  this 
wild  little  nympJi  in  corners,  and  obliged  her  to  jump  shriek- 
ing over  chairs,  I  suspected  the  rogue  of  being  not  a  whit 
more  blinded  than  was  convenient. 

When  I  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  I  found  the  com- 
pany seated  round  the  fire,  listening  to  the  parson,  who  was 
deeply  ensconced  in  a  high-backed  oaken  chair,  the  work  of 
some  cunning  artificer  of  yore,  which  had  been  brought  from 
the  library  for  his  particular  accommodation.  From  this 
v^.nerable  piece  of  furniture,  with  which  his  shadowy  figure 
and  dark  weazen  face  so  admirably  accorded,  he  was  dealing 
forth  strange  accounts  of  the  popular  superstitions  and  legends 
of  the  surrounding  country,  with  which  he  had  become  ac- 
quainted in  the  course  of  his  antiquarian  researches.  I  am 
inclined  to  think  that  the  old  gentleman  was  himself  somewhat 
tinctured  with  superstition,  as  men  are  very  apt  to  be,  who 
live  a  recluse  and  studious  life  in  a  sequestered  part  of  the 
country,  and  pore  over  black-letter  tracts,  so  often  filled  with 
die  marvellous  and  supernatural.  He  gave  us  several  anec- 
dotes of  the  fancies  of  the  neighboring  peasantry,  concerning 
the  effigy  of  the  crusader,  which  lay  on  the  tomb  by  the  church 
altar.  As  it  was  the  only  monument  of  the  kind  in  that  part 
of  the  country,  it  had  always  been  regarded  with  feelings  of 
superstition  by  the  good  wives  of  the  village.  It  was  said  to 
get  up  from  the  tomb  and  walk  the  rounds  of  the  churchyard 
in  stormy  nights,  particularly  when  it  thundered ;  and  one 
old  woman  whose  cottage  bordered  on  the  churchyard,  had 
seen  it  through  the  windows  of  the  church,  when  the  moon 
shone,  slowly  pacing  up  and  down  the  aisles.  It  was  the 
belief  that  some  wrong  had  been  left  unredressed  by  the  de- 
ceased, or  some  treasure  hidden,  which  kept  the  spirit  in  a 
state  of  trouble  and  restlessness.  Some  talked  of  gold  and 
jewels  buried  in  the  tomb,  over  which  the  spectre  kept  w^atch  ; 
and  there  was  a  story  current  of  a  sexton,  in  old  times,  who 
endeavored  to  break  his  way  to  the  coffin  at  night  ;  but  just 
as  he  reached  it  received  a  violent  blow  from  the  marble 


'534  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTOIV  IRVING. 

hand  of  the  effigy,  which  stretched  him  senseless  on  the  pave- 
ment. These  tales  were  often  laughed  at  by  some  of  tne 
sturdier  among  the  rustics ;  yet,  when  night  came  on,  there 
were  many  of  the  stoutest  unbelievers  that  were  shy  of  ven- 
turing alone  in  the  footpath  that  led  across  the  churchyard. 

From  these  and  other  anecdotes  that  followed,  the  crusader 
appeared  to  be  the  favorite  hero  of  ghost  stories  throughout 
the  vicinity.  His  picture,  which  hung  up  in  the  hall,  was 
thought  by  the  servants  to  have  something  supernatural  about 
it :  for  they  remarked  that,  in  whatever  part  of  the  h^U  you 
vi^ent,  the  eyes  of  the  warrior  were  still  fixed  on  you.  'The 
old  porter's  wife,  too,  at  the  lodge,  who  had  been  born  and 
brought  up  in  the  family,  and  was  a  great  gossip  among  the 
maid-servants,  affirmed,  that  in  her  young  days  she  had  often 
heard  say,  that  on  Midsummer  eve,  when  it  was  well  known 
all  kinds  of  ghosts,  goblins,  and  fairies,  become  visible  and 
walk  abroad,  the  crusader  used  to  mount  his  horse,  come 
down  from  his  picture,  ride  about  the  house,  down  the  Lvenue, 
and  so  to  the  church  to  visit  the  tomb  ;  on  which  occasion 
the  church  door  most  civilly  swung  open  of  itself ;  not  that 
he  needed  it — for  he  rode  through  closed  gates  and  even  stone 
walls,  and  had  been  seen  by  one  of  the  dairy-maids  to  pass 
between  two  bars  of  the  great  park  gate,  making  himself  as 
thin  as  a  sheet  of  paper. 

All  these  superstitions  I  found  had  been  very  much  coun- 
tenanced by  the  Squire,  who  though  not  superstitious  himself, 
was  very  fond  of  seeing  others  so.  He  listened  to  every 
goblin  tale  of  the  neighboring  gossips  with  infinite  gravity, 
and  held  the  porter's  wife  in  high  favor  on  account  of  her 
talent  for  the  marvellous.  He  was  himself  a  great  reader  of 
old  legends  and  romances,  and  often  lamented  that  he  could 
not  believe  in  them  ;  for  a  superstitious  person,  he  thought, 
must  live  in  a  kind  of  fairy  land. 

Whilst  we  were  all  attention  to  the  parson's  stories,  our 
ears  were  suddenly  assailed  by  a  burst  of  heterogeneous  sounds 
from  the  hall,  in  which  were  mingled  something  like  the  clang 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYOiY,  GENT.  235 

of  rude  minstrelsy,  with  the  uproar  of  many  small  voices  and 
girlish  laughter.  The  door  suddenly  flew  open,  and  a  train 
came  trooping  into  the  room,  that  might  almost  have  been 
mistaken  for  the  breaking  up  of  the  court  of  Fairy.  That 
indefatigable  spirit,  Master  Simon,  in  the  faithful  dischar^-e  of 
his  duties  as  lord  of  misrule,  had  conceived  the  idea  of  a 
Christmas  mummery,  o*-  masking ;  and  having  called  in  to 
his  assistance  the  Oxonian  and  the  young  officer,  who  were 
equally  ripe  for  anything  that  should  occasion  romping  and 
merriment,  they  had  carried  it  into  instant  effect.  The  old 
housekeeper  had  been  consulted ;  the  antique  clothes-presses 
and  wardrobes  rummaged,  and  made  to  yield  up  the  relics  of 
V.  finery  that  had  not  seen  the  light  for  several  generations  :  the 
younger  part  of  the  company  had  been  privately  convened 
from  parlor  and  hall,  and  the  whole  had  been  bedizened  out, 
into  a  burlesque  imitation  of  an  antique  masque.^ 

Master  Simon  led  the  van  as  Ancient  Christmas," 
quaintly  apparelled  in  a  ruff,  a  short  cloak,  which  had  very 
much  the  aspect  of  one  of  the  old  housekeeper's  petticoats, 
and  a  hat  that  might  have  served  for  a  village  steeple  and 
must  indubitably  have  figured  in  the  days  of  the  Covenanters. 
From  under  this,  his  nose  curved  boldly  forth,  flushed  with  a 
frost  bitten  bloom  that  seemed  the  very  trophy  of  a  December 
blast.  He  was  accompanied  by  the  blue-eyed  romp,  dished 
up  as  *^Dame  Mince  Pie,"  in  the  venerable  magnificence  of 
faded  brocade,  long  stomacher,  peaked  hat  and  high-heeled 
shoes. 

The  young  officer  appeared  as  Robin  Hood,  in  a  sporting 
dress  of  Kendal  green,  and  a  foraging  cap  with  a  gold  tassel. 

The  costume,  to  be  sure,  did  not  bear  testimony  to  deep 
research,  and  there  was  an  evident  e3^e  to  the  picturesque 

*Maskings  or  mummeries  were  favorite  sports  at  Christmas,  in  old 
times,  and  the  wardrobes  at  halls  and  manor-houses  were  often  laid  under 
contribution  to  furnish  dresses  and  fantastic  disguisings.  I  strongly  sus- 
pect Master  Simon  to  have  taken  the  idea  of  his  from  Ben  Jonson's  Mask 
of  Christmas. 


^36  WORKS  OF. WASHINGTON  IR  VING. 

natural  to  a  young  gallant  in  presence  of  his  mistress.  The 
fair  Julia  hung  on  his  arm  in  a  pretty  rustic  dress,  as  "  Maid 
Marian."  The  rest  of  the  train  had  been  metamorphosed  in 
various  ways  ;  the  girls  trussed  up  in  the  finery  of  the  ancient 
belles  of  the  Bracebridge  line,  and  the  striplings  bewhiskered 
with  burnt  cork,  and  gravely  clad  in  broad  skirts,  hanging 
sleeves,  and  full-bottomed  wigs,  to  represent  the  characters 
of  Roast  Beef,  Plum  Pudding,  and  other  worthies  celebrated 
in  ancient  maskings.  The  whole  was  under  the  control  of  the 
Oxonian,  in  the  appropriate  character  of  Misrule  ;  and  I  ob- 
served that  he  exercised  rather  a  mischievous  sway  with  his 
wand  over  the  smaller  personages  of  the  pageant. 

The  irruption  of  this  motley  crew,  with  beat  of  drum,  ac- 
cording to  ancient  custom,  was  the  consummation  of  uproar 
and  merriment.  Master  Simon  covered  himself  with  glory 
by  the  state! in^s  with  which,  as  Ancient  Christmas,  he  walked 
a  minuet  with  the  peerless,  though  giggling.  Dame  Mince  Pie. 
It  was  followed  by  a  dance  from  all  the  characters,  which, 
from  its  medley  of  costumes,  seemed  as  though  the  old  family 
portraits  had  skipped  down  from  their  frames  to  join  in  the 
sport.  Different  centuries  were  figuring  at  cross-hands  and 
right  and  left ;  the  dark  ages  were  cutting  pirouettes  and 
rigadoons  ;  and  the  days  of  Queen  Bess,  jigging  merrily  down 
the  middle,  through  a  line  of  succeeding  generations. 

The  worthy  'Squire  contemplated  these  fantastic  sports, 
and  this  resurrection  of  his  old  wardrobe,  with  the  simple 
relish  of  childish  delight.  He  stood  chuckling  and  rubbing 
his  hands,  and  scarcely  hearing  a  word  the  parson  said,  not- 
withstanding that  the  latter  was  discoursing  most  authentically 
on  the  ancient  and  stately  dance  of  the  Pavon,  or  peacock, 
from  which  he  conceived  the  minuet  to  be  derived. For  my 

*  Sir  John  Hawkins,  speaking  of  the  dance  called  the  Pavon,  from 
pavo,  a  peacock,  says,  It  is  a  grave  and  majestic  dance  ;  the  method  of 
dancing  it  anciently  was  by  gentlemen  dressed  with  caps  and  swords,  by 
those  of  the  long  robe  in  their  gowns ;  by  the  peers  in  their  mantles,  and 
by  the  ladies  in  gowns  with  long  trains,  the  motion  whereof,  in  dancing, 
feaembled  that  of  a  peacock. — History  of  Music. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  237 

part,  I  was  in  a  continual  excitement  from  the  varied  scenes  of 
whim  and  innocent  gayety  passing  before  me.  It  was  inspiring 
to  see  wild-eyed  frolic  and  warm-hearted  hospitality  breaking 
out  from  among  the  chills  and  glooms  of  winter,  and  old  age 
throwing  off  his  apathy,  and  catching  once  more  the  freshness 
of  youthful  enjoyment.  I  felt  also  an  interest  in  the  scene^ 
from  the  consideration  that  these  fleeting  customs  were  posting; 
fast  into  oblivion,  and  that  this  was,  perhaps,  the  only  family 
in  England  in  which  the  whole  of  them  were  still  punctiliously 
observed.  There  was  a  quaintness,  too,  mingled  with  all  this 
revelry,  that  gave  it  a  peculiar  zest  :  it  was  suited  to  the 
time  and  place ;  and  as  the  old  M.anor-house  almost  reeled 
with  mirth  and  w^assail,  it  seemed  echoing  back  the  joviality 
of  long-departed  years. 


But  enough  of  Christmas  and  its  gambols  :  it  is  time  for 
me  to  pause  in  this  garrulity.  Methinks  I  hear  the  question 
asked  by  my  graver  readers,  "  To  what  purpose  is  all  this — 
how  is  the  world  to  be  made  wdser  by  this  talk  ?"  Alas  !  is 
there  not  wisdom  enough  extant  for  the  instruction  of  the 
world  ?  And  if  not,  are  there  not  thousands  of  abler  pens 
laboring  for  its  improvement? — It  is  so  much  pleasanter  to 
please  than  to  instruct — to  play  the  companion  rather  than 
the  preceptor. 

What,  after  all,  is  the  mite  of  wisdom  that  I  could  throw 
into  the  mass  of  knowledge ;  or  how  am  I  sure  that  my  sagest 
deductions  maybe  safe  guides  for  the  opinions  of  others? 
But  in  writing  to  amuse,  if  I  fail,  the  only  evil  is  my  own  dis- 
appointment. If,  however,  I  can  by  any  lucky  chance,  in 
these  days  of  evil,  rub  out  one  wrinkle  from  the  brow  of  care, 
or  beguile  the  heavy  heart  of  one  moment  of  sorrow — if  I  can 
now  and  then  penetrate  through  the  gathering  film  of  misan- 
thropy, prompt  a  benevolent  view  of  human  nature,  and  make 
my  reader  more  in  good  humor  with  his  fellow  beings  and 
himself,  surely,  surely,  I  shall  not  then  have  written  entirely  in 
vain. 


438  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

[The  following  modicum  of  local  history  was  lately  put 
into  my  hands  by  an  odd-looking  old  gentleman  in  a  small 
brown  wig  and  snuff-colored  coat,  with  whom  I  became  ac- 
quainted in  the  course  of  one  of  my  tours  of  observation 
through  the  centre  of  that  great  wilderness,  the  City.  I  confess 
that  I  was  a  little  dubious  at  first,  whether  it  was  not  one  of 
those  apocryphal  tales  often  passed  olf  upon  inquiring  trav- 
ellers like  myself ;  and  which  have  brought  our  general 
character  for  veracity  into  such  unmerited  reproach.  On 
making  proper  inquiries,  however,  I  have  received  the  most 
-satisfactory  assurances  of  the  author's  probity  :  and,  indeed, 
liave  been  told  that  he  is  actually  engaged  in  a  full  and 
particular  account  of  the  very  interesting  region  in  which  he 
resides,  of  which  the  following  may  be  considered  merely  as 
a  foretaste.] 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON-,  GENT,  239 


LITTLE  BRITAIN. 

What  I  write  is  most  true  *  *  *  *  I  have  a  whole  booke  o£  cases  lying 
by  me,  which  if  I  should  sette  foorth,  some  grave  auntients  (within  the 
liearing  of   Bow  bell)  would  be  out  of  charity  with  me.— Nash. 

In  the  centre,  of  the  great  City  of  London  lies  a  small 
neighborhood,  consisting  of  a  cluster  of  narrow  streets  and 
courts,  of  very  venerable  and  debilitated  houses,  which  goes 
by  the  name  of  Little  Britain.  Christ  Church  school  and 
St.  Bartholomew's  hospital  bound  it  on  the  west :  Smithfield 
and  Long  lane  on  the  north;  Aldersgate-street,  like  an  arm 
of  the  sea,  divides  it  from  the  eastern  part  of  the  city ;  whilst 
the  yawning  gulf  of  Bull-and-Mouth-street  separates  it  from 
Butcher  lane,  and  the  regions  of  Newgate.  Over  this  little 
territory,  thus  bounded  and  designated,  the  great  dome  of  St. 
Paul's,  swelling  above  the  intervening  houses  of  Paternoster 
IR.OW,  Amen  Corner,  and  Ave-Maria  lane,  looks  down  with  an 
air  of  motherly  protection. 

This  quarter  derives  its  appellation  from  having  been,  in 
ancient  times,  the  residence  of  the  Dukes  of  Brittany.  As 
London  increased,  however,  rank  and  fashion  rolled  off  to 
the  west,  and  trade  creeping  on  at  their  heels,  took  posses- 
sion of  their  deserted  abodes.  For  some  time,  Little  Britain 
became  the  great  mart  of  learning,  and  was  peopled  by  the 
busy  and  prolific  race  of  booksellers  :  these  also  gradually 
deserted  it,  and  emigrating  beyond  the  great  strait  of  New- 
gate Street,  settled  down  in  Paternoster  Row  and  St.  Paul's 
Church-yard  ;  where  they  continue  to  increase  and  multiply, 
«ven  at  the  present  day. 


340 


WORKS  Of  IVASIiJNGTON  IRVING, 


But  though  thus  fallen  into  decline,  Little  Britain  stilf 
bears  traces  of  its  former  splendor.  There  are  several  houses, 
ready  to  tumble  down,  the  fronts  of  which  are  magnificently 
enriched  with  old  oaken  carvings  of  hideous  faces,  unknown 
birds,  beasts,  and  fishes  ;  and  fruits  and  flowers,  which  it 
would  perplex  a  naturalist  to  classify.  There  are  also,  in 
Aldersgate -Street;  certain  remains  of  what  were  once  spacious 
and  lordly  family  mansions,  but  which  have  in  latter  days 
been  subdivided  into  several  tenements.  Here  may  often  be 
fpund  the  family  of  a  petty  tradesman,  with  its  trumpery 
furniture,  burrowing  among  the  relics  of  antiquated  finery,  in 
great  rambling  time-stained  apartments,  with  fretted  ceilings, 
gilded  cornices,  and  enormous  marble  fire-places.  The  lanes 
and  courts  also  contain  many  smaller  houses,  not  on  so  grand 
a  scale  ;  but,  like  your  small  ancient  gentry,  sturdily  main- 
taining their  claims  to  equal  antiquity.  These  have  their 
gable-ends  to  the  street  :  great  bow-windows,  with  diamond 
panes  set  in  lead  ;  grotesque  carvings  ;  and  low-arched  door- 
ways.^ 

In  this  most  venerable  and  sheltered  little  nest  have  I 
passed  several  quiet  years  of  existence,  comfortably  lodged  ia 
the  second  floor  of  one  of  the  smallest,  but  oldest  edifices. 
My  sitting-room  is  an  old  wainscoted  chamber,  with  small 
panels,  and  set  of  with  a  miscellaneous  array  of  furniture.  I 
have  a  particular  respect  for  three  or  four  high-backed,  claw- 
footed  chairs,  covered  with  tarnished  brocade,  which  bear  the 
marks  of  having  seen  better  days,  and  have  doubtless  figured 
in  some  of  the  old  palaces  of  Little  Britain.  They  seem  to 
me  to  keep  together,  and  to  look  down  with  sovereign  con- 
tempt upon  their  leathern-bottomed  neighbors  ;  as  I  have  seen 
decayed  gentry  carry  a  high  head  among  the  plebeian  society 
with  which  they  were  reduced  to  associate.  The  whole  front 
of  my  sitting-room  is  taken  up  with  a  bow-window ;  on  the 

*tt  !s  evident  that  the  author  of  this  interesting  communication  has 
included  in  his  general  title  of  Little  Britain,  many  of  those  little  lajaes 
and  courts  that  belong  immediately  to  Cloth  Fair. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  241 

panes  of  which  are  recorded  the  names  of  previous  occupants 
for  many  generations  ;  mingled  with  scraps  of  very  indifferent 
gentleman  like  poetry,  vvTitten  in  characters  which  I  can 
scarcely  decipher  ;  and  which  extoi  the  charms  of  many  a 
beauty  of  Little  Britain,  who  has  long,  long  since  bloomed^ 
faded,  and  passed  away.  As  I  am  an  idle  personage,  with  no 
apparent  occupation,  and  pay  my  bill  regularly  every  week,  I 
am  looked  upon  as  the  only  independent  gentleman  of  the 
neighborhood  ;  and  being  curious  to  learn  the  internal  state 
of  a  community  so  apparently  shut  up  within  itself,  I  have 
managed  to  work  my  way  into  all  the  concerns  and  secrets  of 
the  place. 

Little  Britain  may  truly  be  called  the  heart's-core  of  the 
city  j  the  strong-hold  of  true  John  Bullism.  It  is  a  fragment 
of  London  as  it  was  in  its  better  days,  with  its  antiquated  folks 
and  fashions.  Here  flourish  in  great  preservation  many  of  the 
holiday  games  and  customs  of  yore.  The  inhabitants  most 
religiously  eat  pancakes  on  Shrove-Tuesday  ;  hot-cross-buns 
on  Good-Friday,  and  roast  goose  at  Michaelmas ;  they  send 
love-letters  on  Valentine's  Day ;  burn  the  Pope  on  the  Fifth 
of  November,  and  kiss  all  the  girls  under  the  mistletoe  at 
Christmas.  Roast  beef  and  plum-pudding  are  also  held  in 
superstitious  veneration,  and  port  and  sherry  maintain  their 
grounds  as  the  only  true  English  wines — all  others  being  con- 
sidered vile  outlandish  beverages. 

Little  Britain  has  its  long  catalogue  of  city  wonders,  which 
its  inhabitants  consider  the  wonders  of  the  v/orld :  such  as 
the  great  bell  of  St.  Paul's,  which  sours  all  the  beer  when  it 
tolls  ;  the  figures  that  strike  the  hours  at  St.  Dunstan's  clock  \ 
the  Monument  ;  the  lions  in  the  Tower ;  and  the  wooden 
giants  in  Guildhall.  They  still  believe  in  dreams  and  for- 
tune-telling ;  and  an  old  woman  that  lives  in  Bull-and-Mouth 
Street  makes  a  tolerable  subsistence  by  detecting  stolen  goods, 
and  promising  the  girls  good  husbands.  They  are  apt  to  be 
rendered  uncomfortable  by  comets  and  eclipses  ;  and  if  a  dog 
liowls  dolefully  at  night,  it  is  looked  upon  as  a  sure  sign  of  a 


242  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

death  in  the  place.  There  are  even  many  ghost  stories  cur- 
rent, particularly  concerning  the  old  mansion-houses ;  in 
several  of  which  it  is  said  strange  sights  are  sometimes  seen. 
Lords  and  ladies,  the  former  in  full-bottomed  wigs,  hanging 
sleeves  and  swords,  the  latter  in  lappets,  stays,  hoops,  and 
brocade,  have  been  seen  walking  up  and  down  the  great  waste 
chambers,  on  moonlight  nights  ;  and  are  supposed  to  be  the 
shades  of  the  ancient  proprietors  in  their  court-dresses. 

Little  Britain  has  likewise  its  sages  and  great  men.  One 
of  the  most  important  of  the  former  is  a  tall  dry  old  gentle- 
man, of  the  name  of  Skryme,  who  keeps  a  small  apothecary's 
shop.  He  has  a  cadaverous  countenance,  full  of  cavities  and 
projections ;  with  a  brown  circle  round  each  eye,  like  a  pair 
of  horn  spectacles.  He  is  much  thought  of  by  the  old  women, 
who  consider  him  as  a  kind  of  conjuror,  because  he  has  two 
or  three  stuffed  alligators  hanging  up  in  his  shop,  and  several 
snakes  in  bottles.  He  is  a  great  reader  of  almanacs  and  news- 
papers, and  is  much  given  to  pore  over  alarming  accounts  of 
plots,  conspiracies,  fires,  earthquakes,  and  volcanic  eruptions  i 
which  last  phenomena  he  considers  as  signs  of  the  times.  He 
has  always  some  dismal  tale  of  the  kind  to  deal  out  to  his 
customers,  with  their  doses ;  and  thus  at  the  same  time  puts 
both  soul  and  body  into  an  uproar.  He  is  a  great  believer 
in  omens  and  predictions  ;  and  has  the  prophecies  of  Robert 
Nixon  and  Mother  Shipton  by  heart.  No  man  can  make  so* 
much  out  of  an  eclipse,,  or  even  an  unusually  dark  day  ;  and 
he  shook  the  tail  of  the  last  comet  over  the  heads  of  his  cus- 
tomers and  disciples,  until  they  were  nearly  frightened  out  of 
their  wits.  He  has  lately  got  hold  of  a  popular  legend  or 
prophecy,  on  which  he  has  been  unusually  eloquent.  There 
has  been  a  saying  current  among  the  ancient  Sybils,  who 
treasure  up  these  things,  that  when  the  grasshopper  on  the 
top  of  the  Exchange  shook  hands  with  the  dragon  on  the  top 
of  Bow  Church  steeple,  fearful  events  would  take  place.  This 
strange  conjunction,  it  seems,  has  as  strangely  come  to  pass. 
The  same  architect  has  been  engaged  lately  on  the  repairs  of 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  243 


the  cupola  of  the  Exchange,  and  the  steeple  of  Bow  Church ; 
and,  fearful  to  relate,  the  dragon  and  the  grasshopper  actually 
he,  cheek  by  jole,  in  the  yard  of  his  workshop. 

'^Others,"  as  Mr.  Skryme  is  accustomed  to  say,  may  go 
star-gazing,  and  look  for  conjunctions  in  the  heavens,  but  here 
is  a  conjunction  on  the  earth,  near  at  home,  and  under  our 
own  eyes,  which  surpasses  all  the  signs  and  calculations  of 
astrologers.''  Since  these  portentous  weathercocks  have  thus 
laid  their  heads  together,  w^onderful  events  had  already  oc- 
curred. The  good  old  king,  notwithstanding  that  he  had 
lived  eighty-two  years,  had  all  at  once  given  up  the  ghost ; 
another  king  had  mounted  the  throne  ;  a  royal  duke  had  died 
suddenly — another,  in  France,  had  been  murdered  ;  there  had 
been  radical  meetings  in  all  parts  of  the  kingdom  ;  the  bloody 
scenes  at  Manchester — the  great  plot  in  Cato-street ; — and, 
above  all,  the  Queen  had  returned  to  England  !  All  these 
sinister  events  are  recounted  by  Mr.  Skryme  with  a  mysterious 
look,  and  a  dismal  shake  of  the  head  ;  and  being  taken  with 
his  drugs,  and  associated  in  the  minds  of  his  auditors  with 
stuffed  sea-monsters,  bottled  serpents,  and  his  own  visage, 
which  is  a  title-page  of  tribulation,  they  have  spread  great 
gloom  through  the  minds  of  the  people  in  Little  Britain.  They 
shake  their  heads  whenever  they  go  by  Bow  Church,  and  ob- 
serve, that  they  never  expected  any  good  to  come  of  taking 
down  that  steeple,  which,  in  old  times,  told  nothing  but  glad 
tidings,  as  the  history  of  Whittington  and  his  cat  bears  wit- 
nesSo 

The  rival  oracle  of  Little  Britain  is  a  substantial  cheese- 
monger, who  lives  in  a  fragment  of  one  of  the  old  family  man- 
sions, and  is  as  magnificently  lodged  as  a  round-bellied  mite 
in  the  midst  of  one  of  his  own  Cheshires.  Indeed,  he  is  a 
man  of  no  little  standing  and  importance  ;  and  his  renown 
extends  through  Huggin  lane,  and  Lad  lane,  and  even  unto 
Aidermanbury.  His  opinion  is  very  much  taken  in  the  affairs 
'Of  state,  having  read  the  Sunday  papers  for  the  last  half  cen- 
tury, together  with  the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  Rapin's  His- 


244 


WOK/sTS  OF  IVASHING7VN  IRVING. 


tory  of  England,  and  the  Naval  Chronicle.  His  head  is^ 
stored  with  invaluable  maxims,  which  ha\  e  borne  tlie  test  of 
time  and  use  for  centuries.  It  is  his  firm  opinion  that  it  is 
a  moral  impossible,"  so  long  as  England  is  true  to  herselfy 
that  anything  can  shake  her :  and  he  has  much  to  say  on  the 
subject  of  the  national  debt ;  which,  somehow  or  other,  he 
proves  to  be  a  great  national  bulwark  and  blessing.  He 
passed  the  greater  part  of  his  life  in  the  purlieus  of  Little 
Britain,  until  of  late  years,  when,  having  become  rich,  and 
grown  into  the  dignity  of  a  Sunday  cane,  he  begins  to  take 
his  pleasure  and  see  the  world.  He  has  therefore  made  sev- 
eral excursions  to  Hampstead,  Highgate,  and  other  neighbor- 
ing towns,  where  he  has  passed  w^hole  afternoons  in  looking 
back  upon  the  metropolis  through  a  telescope,  and  endeavor- 
ing to  descry  the  steeple  of  St.  Bartholomew's.  Not  a  stage- 
coachman  of  Bull-an4^outh  Street  but  touches  his  hat  as  he 
passes  ;  and  he  is  considered  quite  a  patron  at  the  coach-office 
of  the  Goose  and  Gridiron,  St.  Paul's  Churchyard.  His  family 
have  been  very  urgent  for  him  to  make  an  expedition  to 
Margate,  but  he  has  great  doubts  of  these  new  gimcracks  the 
steamboats,  and  indeed  thinks  himself  too  advanced  in  life  to 
undertake  sea-voyages. 

Little  Britain  has  occasionally  its  factions  and  divisions, 
and  party  spirit  ran  very  high  at  one  time,  in  consequence  of 
two  rival  "  Burial  Societies  "  being  set  up  in  the  place.  One 
held  its  meeting  at  the  Swan  and  Horse-Shoe,  and  was- 
patronized  by  the  cheesemonger  ;  the  other  at  the  Cock  and 
Crown,  under  the  auspices  of  the  apothecary  :  it  is  needless 
to  say,  that  the  latter  was  the  most  flourishing.  I  have  passed 
an  evening  or  two  at  each,  and  have  acquired  much  valuable 
information  as  to  the  best  mode  of  being  buried ;  the  compar- 
ative merits  of  churchyards  ;  together  with  divers  hints  on  the 
subject  of  patent  iron  coffins.  I  have  heard  the  question  dis- 
cussed in  all  its  bearings,  as  to  the  legality  of  prohibiting  the- 
latter  on  account  of  their  durability.  The  feuds  occasioned; 
by  these  societies  have  happily  died  away  of  late ;  but  they 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  245 

•were  for  a  long  time  prevailing  themes  of  controversy,  the 
people  of  Little  Britain  being  extremely  solicitous  of  funeral 
honors,  and  of  lying  comfortably  in  their  graves. 

Besides  these  two  funeral  societies,  there  is  a  third  of  quite 
a  different  cast,  which  tends  to  throw  the  sunshine  of  good- 
humor  over  the  whole  neighborhood.  It  meets  once  a  v;eek 
at  a  little  old-fashioned  house,  kept  by  a  jolly  publican  of  the 
name  of  Wagstaff,  and  bearing  for  insignia  a  resplendent  half- 
mcon,  with  a  most  seductive  bunch  of  grapes.  The  whole 
edifice  is  covered  with  inscriptions  to  catch  the  eye  of  the 
tliirsty  wayfarer  ;  such  as  "  Truman,  Hanbury  and  Co.'s  En- 
tire," ''Wine,  Rum,  and  Brandy  Vaults,"  Old  Tom,  Rum^ 
■and  Compounds,  &c."  This,  indeed,  has  been  a  temple  of 
Bacchus  and  Momus,  from  time  immemorial.  It  has  always 
been  in  the  famil}^  of  the  Wagstaffs,  so  that  its  history  is 
tolerably  preserved  by  the  present  landlord.  It  was  much 
frequented  by  the  gallants  andcavalieros  of  the  reign  of  Eliza- 
beth, and  was  looked  into  now  and  then  by  the  wits  of  Charles 
the  Second's  day.  But  what  Wagstaff  principally  prides  him- 
self upon,  is,  that  Henry  the  Eighth,  in  one  of  his  nocturnal 
Tanibles,  broke  the  head  of  one  of  his  ancestors  with  his 
tamous  walking-staff.  This,  however,  is  considered  as  rather 
a  dubious  and  vain-glorious  boast  of  the  landlord. 

'."he  club  which  now  holds  its  weekly  sessions  here,  goes 
by  the  name  of  the  Roaring  Lads  of  Little  Britain.''  They 
abound  in  all  catches,  glees,  and  choice  stories,  that  are  tradi- 
tional in  the  place,  and  not  to  be  met  with  in  any  other  part 
of  the  metropolis.  There  is  a  madcap  undertaker,  who  is 
inimitable  at  a  merry  song  ;  but  the  life  of  the  club,  and  in- 
deed the  prime  wit  of  Little  Britain,  is  bully  Wagstaff  himself. 
His  ancestors  were  all  wags  before  him,  and  he  has  inherited 
with  the  inn  a  large  stock  of  songs  and  jokes,  which  go  with 
it  from  generation  to  generation  as  heir-looms.  He  is  a  dapper 
little  fellow,  with  bandy  legs  and  pot  belly,  a  red  face  with  a 
moist  merry  eye,  and  a  Httle  shock  of  gray  hair  behind.  At 
the  opening  of  every  club  night,  he  is  called  \ii  to  sing  his 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


"Confession  of  Faith,"  which  is  the  famous  old  drinking trowl 
from  Gammer  Gurton's  needle.  He  sings  it,  to  be  sure,  with 
many  variations,  as  he  received  it  from  his  father's  lips  ;  for 
it  had  been  a  standing  favorite  at  the  Half-Moon  and  Bunch 
of  Grapes  ever  since  it  was  written ;  nay,  he  affirms  that  his 
predecessors  have  often  had  the  honor  of  singing  it  before  the 
nobility  and  gentry  at  Christmas  mummeries,  when  Little 
Britain  was  in  all  its  glory.* 

*  As  mine  host  of  the  Half-Moon's  Confession  of  Faith  may  not  be 
familiar  to  the  majority  of  rea^ders,  and  as  it  is  a  specimen  of  the  current 
songs  of  Little  Britain,  I  subjoin  it  in  its  original  orthography.  I  would 
observe,  that  the  whole  club  always  join  in  the  chorus  with  a  fearfui 
ihumping  on  the  table  and  clattering  of  pewter-pots. 

I  cannot  eate  but  lytle  meate, 

My  stomacke  is  not  good, 
But  sure  I  thinke  that  I  can  drinke 

With  him  that  weares  a  hood. 
Though  I  go  bare  take  ye  no  care, 

I  nothing  am  a  colde, 
I  stuff  my  skyn  so  full  within, 

Of  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 

Chorus*    Back  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare, 
Both  foot  and  hand  go  colde, 
But  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  ynoi^bfl^ 

Whether  it  be  new  or  olde. 

I  have  no  rost,  but  a  nut  brown  toste 

And  a  crab  laid  in  the  fyre  ; 
A  little  breade  shall  do  me  steade. 

Much  breade  I  not  desyre. 
Kg  frost  nor  snow,  nor  winde  I  trowe^ 

Can  hurt  me  if  I  wolde, 
1  am  so  wrapt  and  throwly  lapt 

Of  joly  good  ale  and  olde, 

i^korus.    Back  and  jyde  go  bare,  go  bare,  &c» 

And  Tyb  my  wife,  that,  as  her  lyfe, 

Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seeke, 
Full  oft  drynkes  she,  tyll  ye  may  see 

The  teares  run  down  her  cheeke. 
Then  doth  shee  trowle  to  me  the  bowle^ 

Even  as  a  maulte-worme  sholde, 
And  sayth,  sweete  harte,  I  tooke  my  part9 

Of  this  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 

Ci^TM.    Back  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  &g» 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT,  247 


It  would  do  one's  heart  good  to  hear  on  a  club-night  the 
shouts  of  merriment,  the  snatches  of  song,  and  now  and  then- 
the  choral  bursts  of  half  a-dozen  discordant  voices,  which 
issue  from  this  jovial  mansion.  At  such  times  the  street  is 
lined  with  listeners,  who  enjoy  a  delight  equal  to  that  of  gaz- 
ing into  a  confectioner's  window,  or  snufBng  up  the  steams  of 
a  cook-shop. 

There  are  two  annual  events  which  produce  great  stir  and 
sensation  in  Little  Britain  ;  these  are  St.  Bartholomew's  Fair, 
and  the  Lord  Mayor's  day.  During  the  time  of  the  Fair, 
which  is  held  in  the  adjoining  regions  of  Smithfield,  there  is 
nothing  going  on  but  gossiping  and  gadding  about.  The  late 
quiet  streets  of  Little  Britain  are  overrun  with  an  irruption 
of  strange  figures  and  faces  ; — every  tavern  is  a  scene  of  rout 
and  revel.  The  fiddle  and  the  song  are  heard  from  the  tap- 
room, morning,  noon,  and  night  ;  and  at  each  window  may 
be  seen  some  group  of  boon  companions,  with  half-shut  eyes^ 
hats  on  one  side,  pipe  in  mouth,  and  tankard  in  hand,  fonu- 
ling  and  prozing,  and  singing  maudlin  songs  over  their  liquor. 
Even  the  sober  decorum  of  private  families,  which  I  must  say 
is  rigidly  kept  up  at  other  times  among  my  neighbors,  is  no^ 
proof  against  this  Saturnalia.  There  is  no  such  thing  as 
keeping  maid  servants  within  doors.  Their  brains  are  abso- 
lutely set  madding  with  Punch  and  the  Puppet  Show  ;  the 
Flying  Horses  ;  Signior  Polito ;  the  Fire-Eater ;  the  cele- 
brated  Mr.  Paap  ;  and  the  Irish  Giant.  The  children,  too, 
lavish  all  their  holiday  money  in  toys  and  gilt  gingerbread,  and 
fill  the  house  with  the  Lilliputian  din  of  drums,  trumpets,  and 
penny  whistles. 

Now  let  tbem  rlrynke,  tyll  they  nod  and  winke, 

Even  as  goode  fellowes  sholde  doe, 
They  shall  not  inysse  to  have  the  blisse, 

Good  ale  doth  bring  men  to. 
And  all  poor  soules  that  have  scowred  bowles. 

Or  have  them  lustily  trolde, 
God  save  the  lyves  of  them  and  their  wivest 

Whether  they  be  yonge  or  olde. 

ChtfTus.    Back  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  &c. 


248  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 

But  the  Lord  Mayor's  day  is  the  great  anniversary.  The 
Lord  Mayor  is  looked  up  to  by  the  inhabitants  of  Little  Bri- 
tain, as  the  greatest  potentate  upon  earth  ;  his  gilt  coach  with 
six  horses,  as  the  -summit  of  human  splendor  ;  and  his  pro 
cession,  with  all  the  Sheriffs  and  Aldermen  in  his  train,  as  the 
grandest  of  earthly  pageants.  How  they  exult  in  the  idea, 
that  the  King  Iiimself  dare  not  enter  the  city  without  first 
knocking  at  the  gate  of  Temple  Bar,  and  asking  permis- 
sion of  the  Lord  Mayor  ;  for  if  lie  did,  heaven  and  earth  ! 
there  is  no  knowing  what  might  be  the  consequence.  The 
man  in  armor  who  rides  before  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  is  the 
city  champion,  has  orders  to  cut  down  everybody  that  offends 
against  the  dignity  of  the  city  ;  and  then  there  is  the  little 
man  with  a  velvet  porringer  on  his  head,  who  sits  at  the  win- 
dow of  the  state  coach  and  holds  the  city  sword,  as  long  as  a 
pike-staff — Od's  blood  !  if  he  once  draws  that  sword.  Majesty 
itself  is  not  safe  ! 

Under  the  protection  of  this  mighty  potentate,  therefore, 
the  good  people  of  Little  Britain  sleep  in  peace.  Temple  Bar 
is  an  effectual  barrier  against  all  internal  foes  ;  and  as  to  for- 
eign invasion,  the  Lord  Mayor  has  but  to  throw  himself  into  the 
Tower,  call  in  the  train  bands,  and  put  the  standing  army  of 
Beef-eaters  under  arms,  and  he  may  bid  defiance  to  the 
world  ! 

Thus  wrapped  up  in  his  own  concerns,  its  own  habits,  and 
its  own  opinions.  Little  Britain  has  long  flourished  as  a  sound 
heart  to  this  great  fungus  metropolis.  I  have  pleased  myself 
with  considering  it  as  a  chosen  spot,  where  the  principles  of 
sturdy  John  Bullism  were  garnered  up,  like  seed-corn,  to  renew 
the  national  character,  when  it  had  run  to  waste  and  degen- 
eracy. I  have  rejoiced  also  in  the  general  spirit  of  harmony 
that  prevailed  throughout  it ;  for  though  there  might  now  and 
then  be  a  few  clashes  of  opinion  between  the  adherents  of  the 
cheesemonger  and  the  apothecary,  and  an  occasional  feud  be- 
tween the  burial  societies,  yet  these  were  but  transient  clouds, 
and  soon  passed  away.    The  neighbors  met  with  good-will. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  2491^ 

parted  with  a  shake  of  the  hand,  and  never  abused  each  other 
except  behind  their  backs. 

I  could  give  rare  descriptions  of  snug  junketing  parties  at 
which  I  have  been  present ;  where  we  played  at  All-Fours, 
Pope-Joan,  Tom-come-tickle-me,  and  other  choice  old  games  : 
and  where  we  sometimes  had  a  good  old  English  country 
dance,  to  the  tune  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverly.  Once  a  year  also^ 
the  neighbors  would  gather  together,  and  go  on  a  gypsy  party 
to  Epping  Forest.  It  would  have  done  any  man's  heart  good 
to  see  the  merriment  that  took  place  here,  as  we  banqueted  on 
the  grass  under  the  trees.  How  we  made  the  w^oods  ring  wdth 
bursts  of  laughter  at  the  songs  of  little  Wagstaff  and  the  merry 
undertaker  !  After  dinner,  too,  the  young  folks  would  play 
at  blindman's-buff  and  hide-and-seek  ;  and  it  was  amusing  to 
see  them  tangled  among  the  briers,  and  to  hear  a  fine  romping 
girl  now^  and  then  squeak  from  among  the  bushes.  The  elder 
folks  would  gather  round  the  cheesemonger  and  the  apothe- 
cary, to  hear  them  talk  politics  ;  for  they  generally  brought 
out  a  newspaper  in  their  pockets,  to  pass  away  time  in  the 
country.  They  would  now  and  then,  to  be  sure,  get  a  little 
warm  in  argument ;  but  their  disputes  were  always  adjusted 
by  reference  to  a  worthy  old  umbrella-maker  in  a  double  chin, 
who,  never  exacdy  comprehending  the  subject,  managed,  some- 
how or  other,  to  decide  in  favor  of  both  parties. 

All  empires,  however,  says  some  philosopher  or  historian, 
are  doomed  to  changes  and  revolutions.  Luxury  and  innova- 
tion creep  in factions  arise ;  and  families  now  and  then 
spring  up,  whose  ambition  and  intrigues  throw  the  whole 
system  into  confusion.  Thus  in  latter  days  has  the  tran^ 
quillity  of  Little  Britain  been  grievously  disturbed,  and  its 
golden  simplicity  of  manners  threatened  with  total  subversion, 
by  the  aspiring  family  of  a  retired  butcher. 

The  family  of  the  Lambs  had  long  been  among  the  most 
thriving  and  jDopular  in  the  neighborhood  ;  the  Miss  Lambs 
were  the  belles  of  Little  Britain,  and  everybody  was  pleased 
when  old  Lamb  had  made  money  enough  to  shut  up  shop,  and 


^JO  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 

put  his  name  on  a  brass  plate  on  his  door.  In  an  evil  hour, 
however,  one  of  the  Miss  Lambs  had  the  honor  of  being  a 
lady  in'  attendance  on  the  Lady  Mayoress,  at  her  grand  an- 
nual ball,  on  which  occasion  she  wore  three  towering  ostrich 
feathers  on  her  head.  The  family  never  got  over  it ;  they 
were  immediately  smitten  with  a  passion  for  high  life  ;  setup 
a  one-horse  carriage,  put  a  bit  of  gold  lace  round  the  errand- 
boy's  hat,  and  have  been  the  talk  and  detestation  of  the  whole 
neighborhood  ever  since.  They  could  no  longer  be  induced 
to  play  at  Pope-Joan  or  blindman's-buff  ;  they  could  endure 
no  dances  but  quadrilles^  which  nobody  had  ever  heard  of  in 
Little  Britain  \  and  they  took  to  reading  novels,  talking  bad 
French,  and  playing  upon  the  piano.  Their  brother,  too, 
■who  had  been  articled  to  an  attorney,  set  up  for  a  dandy  and  a 
critic,  characters  hitherto  unknown  in  these  parts  ;  and  he 
confounded  the  worthy  folks  exceedingly  by  talking  about 
Kean,  the  Opera,  and  the  Edinbro'  Review. 

What  was  still  worse,  the  Lambs  gave  a  grand  ball,  to 
which  they  neglected  to  invite  any  of  their  old  neighbors  ;  but 
they  had  a  great  deal  of  genteel  company  from  Theobald's 
Road,  Red-lion  Square,  and  other  parts  toward  the  west. 
There  were  several  beaux  of  their  brother's  acquaintance  from 
Gray's-Inn  lane  and  Hatton  Garden ;  and  not  less  than  three 
Aldermen's  ladies  with  their  daughters.  This  was  not  to  be 
forgotten  cr  forgiven.  All  Little  Britain  was  in  an  uproar 
with  the  smacking  of  whips,  the  lashing  of  miserable  horses, 
and  the  rattling  and  jingling  of  hackney-coaches.  The  gossips 
•of  the  neighborhood  might  be  seen  popping  their  night-caps 
out  at  every  window,  watching  the  crazy  vehicles  rumble  by  ; 
and  there  was  a  knot  of  virulent  old  cronies,  that  kept  a  look- 
out from  a  house  just  opposite  the  retired  butcher's,  and  scan- 
ned and  criticized  everyone  that  knocked  at  the  door. 

The  dance  was  a  cause  of  almost  open  war,  and  the  whole 
fieighborhood  declared  they  would  have  nothing  more  to  say 
to  the  Lambs.  It  is  true  that  Mrs.  Lamb,  when  she  had  no 
engagements  with  her  quality  acquaintance,  would  give  little 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.     25 1 

humdrum  tea  junketings  to  some  of  her  old  cronies,  quite," 
as  she  would  say,  "  in  a  friendly  way  ;  "  and  it  is  equally  true 
than  her  invitations  were  always  accepted,  in  spite  of  all  pre- 
vious vows  to  the  contrary.  Nay,  the  good  ladies  would  sit 
and  be  delighted  with  the  music  of  the  Miss  Lambs,  who 
would  condescend  to  thrum  an  Irish  melody  for  them  on  the 
piano  ;  and  they  would  listen  with  wonderful  interest  to  Mrs. 
Lamb's  anecdotes  of  Alderman  Plunket's  family  of  Portsoken- 
ward,  and  the  Miss  Timberlakes,  the  rich  heiresses  of  Crutched- 
Friars  ;  but  then  they  relieved  their  consciences,  and  averted 
the  reproaches  of  their  confederates,  by  canvassing  at  the  next 
gossiping  convocation  everything  that  had  passed,  and  pulling 
e  Lambs  and  their  rout  all  to  pieces. 

The  only  one  of  the  family  that  could  not  be  made  fash- 
ionable, was  the  retired  butcher  himself.  Honest  Lamb,  in 
spite  of  the  meekness  of  his  name,  was  a  rough  hearty  old 
fellow,  with  the  voice  of  a  lion,  a  head  of  black  hair  like  a 
shoe-brush,  and  a  broad  face  mottled  like  his  own  beef.  It 
was  in  vain  that  the  daughters  always  spoke  of  him  as  the  "old 
gentleman,"  addressed  him  as  "  papa,''  in  tones  of  infinite  soft- 
ness, and  endeavored  to  coax  him  into  a  dressing-gown  and 
slippers,  and  other  gentlemanly  habits.  Do  w^hat  they  might, 
there  was  no  keeping  down  the  butcher.  His  sturdy  nature 
would  break  through  all  their  glozings.  He  had  a  hearty  vul- 
gar good-humor,  that  was  irrepressible.  His  very  jokes  made 
his  sensitive  daughters  shudder ;  and  he  persisted  in  wearing 
his  blue  cotton  coat  of  a  morning,  dining  as  two  o'clock,  and 
having  a  "  bit  of  sausage  with  his  tea." 

He  was  doomed,  however,  to  share  the  unpopularity  of  Iiis 
family.  He  found  his  old  comrades  gradually  growuig  cold 
and  civil  to  him ;  no  longer  laughing  at  his  jokes  :  and  now 
and  then  throwing  out  a  fling  at  "  some  people,"  and  a  hint 
about  *^  quality  binding."  This  both  nettled  and  perplexed 
the  honest  butcher  j  and  his  wife  and  daughters,  with  the  con- 
summate policy  of  the  shrewder  sex,  taking  advantage  of  the 
circumstances,  at  length  prevailed  upon  him  to  give  up  his 


itu^S  M^ORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 

afternoon  pipe  and  tankard  at  Wagstaff's  ;  to  sit  after  dinner 
by  himself,  and  take  his  pint  of  port — a  Uquor  he  detested — » 
and  nod  in  his  chair,  in  soUtary  and  dismal  gentility. 

The  Miss  Lambs  might  now  be  seen  flaunting  along  thei 
.^treets  in  P'rench  bonnets,  with  unknowji  beaux ;  and  talking 
and  laughing  so  loud,  that  it  distressed  the  nerves  of  everj 
good  lady  within  hearing.  They  even  went  so  far  as  to  at 
tempt  patronage,  and  actually  induced  a  French  dancing-mas- 
ter to  set  up  in  the  neighborhood  ;  but  the  worthy  folks  ot 
Tittle  Britain  took  fire  at  it,  and  did  so  persecute  the  poor 
.  Gaul,  that  he  was  fain  to  pack  up  fiddle  and  dancing-pumps, 
and  decamp  with  such  precipitation  that  he  absolutely  forgot 
to  pay  for  his  lodgings. 

I  had  flattered  myself,  at  first,  with  the  idea  that  all  this 
fiery  indignation  on  the  part  of  the  community  was  merely  the 
overflowing  of  their  zeal  for  good  old  English  manners,  and 
their  horror  of  innovation  ;  and  I  applauded  the  silent  con- 
tempt they  were  so  vociferous  in  expressing,  for  upstart  pride, 
Trench  fashions,  and  the  Miss  Lambs.  But  I  grieve  to  say 
that  I  soon  perceived  the  infection  had  taken  hoid  ;  and  that 
niy  neighbors,  after  condemning,  were  beginning  to  follow  their 
example.  I  overheard  my  landlady  importuning  her  husband 
to  let  their  daughters  have  one  quarter  at  French  and  music, 
and  that  they  might  take  a  few  lessons  in  quadrille  ;  I  even 
saw,  in  the  course  of  a  few  Sundays,  no  less  than  five  French 
bonnets,  precisely  like  those  of  the  Miss  Lambs,  parading 
about  Little  Britain. 

I  still  had  my  hopes  that  all  this  folly  would  gradually  die 
away ;  that  the  Lambs  might  move  out  of  the  neighborhood  ; 
might  die,  or  might  run  away  with  attorneys'  apprentices  3  and 
that  quiet  and  simplicity  might  be  again  restored  to  the  com- 
munity. But  unluckily  a  rival  power  arose.  An  opulent  oil- 
man died,  and  left  a  widow  with  a  large  jointure,  and  a  family 
of  buxom  daughters.  The  young  ladies  had  long  been  re- 
pining in  secret  at  the  parsimony  of  a  prudent  father,  which 
kept  down  all  their  elegant  aspirings,    Their  ambition  being 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  253, 

now  no  longer  restrained  broke  out  into  a  blaze,  and  they 
openly  took  the  field  against  the  family  of  the  butcher.  It  is. 
true  that  the  Lambs,  having  had  the  first  start,  had  naturally 
an  advantage  of  them  in  the  fashionable  career.  They  could 
speak  a  little  bad  French,  play  the  piano,  dance  quadrilles,  and 
had  formed  high  acquaintance,  but  the  Trotters  were  not  to  be 
distanced.  When  the  Lambs  appeared  with  two  feathers  in 
their  hats,  the  Miss  Trotters  mounted  four,  and  of  twice  as 
fine  colors.  If  the  Lambs  gave  a  dance,  the  Trotters  were 
sure  not  to  be  behindhand  ;  and  though  they  might  not  boast 
of  as  good  company,  yet  they  had  double  the  number,  and 
were  twice  as  merry. 

The  whole  community  has  at  length  divided  itself  into 
fashionable  factions,  under  the  banners  of  these  two  families* 
The  old  games  of  Pope-Joan  and  Tom-come-tickle-me  are 
entirely  discarded ;  ther-e  is  no  such  thing  as  getting  up 
an  honest  country-dance  ;  and  on  my  attempting  to  kiss  a 
3'oung  lady  under  the  mistletoe  last  Christmas,  I  was  indig- 
nantly repulsed the  Miss  Lambs  having  pronounced  it 
^'shocking  vuigar.''  Bitter  rivalry  has  also  broken  out  as  to 
the  most  fashionable  part  of  Little  Britain  ;  the  Lambs  stand- 
ing up  for  the  dignity  of  Cross -Keys  Square,  and  the  Trotters 
for  the  vicinity  of  St.  Bartholomew's. 

Thus  is  this  little  territory  torn  by  factions  and  internal 
dissensions,  like  the  great  empire  whose  name  it  bears  ;  and 
what  will  be  the  result  would  puzzle  the  apothecary  himself^ 
with  all  his  talent  at  prognostics,  to  determine  ;  though  I  ap- 
prehend that  it  Yv^ill  terminate  in  the  total  downfall  of  genuine 
John  Bullism. 

The  immediate  effects  are  extremely  unpleasant  to  me. 
Being  a  single  man,  and,  as  I  observed  before,  rather  an  idle 
good-for-nothing  personage,  I  have  been  considered  the  only 
gentleman  by  profession  in  the  place.  I  stand  therefore  ia 
high  favor  with  both  parties,  and  have  to  hear  all  their  cabinet 
councils  and  mutual  backbitings.  As  I  am  too  civil  not  ta 
agree  with  the  ladies  on  all  occasions,  I  have  committed  it 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 

self  most  horribly  with  both  parties,  by  abusing  their  opponents, 
X  might  manage  to  reconcile  this  to  my  conscience,  which  is  a 
truly  accommodating  one,  but  I  cannot  to  my  apprehensions — 
if  the  Lambs  and  Trotters  ever  come  to  a  reconciliation,  and 
compare  notes,  I  am  ruined  1 

I  have  determined,  therefore,  to  beat  a  retreat  in  time,  and 
am  actually  looking  out  for  some  other  nest  in  this  great  city, 
where  old  English  manners  are  still  kept  up  ;  where  French  is 
neither  eaten,  drank,  danced,  nor  spoken  ;  and  where  there 
are  no  fashionable  families  of  retired  tradesmen.  This  found, 
I  will,  like  a  veteran  rat,  hasten  away  before  1  have  an  old 
house  about  my  ears — bid  a  long,  though  a  sorrowful  adieu  to 
my  present  abode — and  leave  the  rival  factions  of  the  Lamba 
and  the  Trotters,  to  divide  the  distracted  empire  of  Littlb 
JBritain. 


-4 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  VON,  GENT.  2^ 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON, 

Thou  soft  flowing  Avon,  by  thy  silver  stream 

Of  things  more  than  mortal  sweet  Shakspeare  would  dream: 

The  fairies  by  moonlight  dance  round  his  green  bed, 

For  hallowed  the  turf  is  which  pillowed  his  head. 

Garrick. 

Tc  a  homeless  man,  who  has  no  spot  on  this  wide  world 
which  he  can  truly  call  his  own,  there  is  a  momentary  feeling 
of  something  like  independence  and  territorial  consequence, 
when,  after  a  weary  day's  travel,  he  kicks  off  his  boots,  thrusts 
His  feet  into  slippers,  and  stretches  himself  before  an  inn  fire. 
Let  the  world  without  go  as  it  may  ;  let  kingdoms  rise  or  fall, 
so  long  as  he  has  the  wherewithal  to  pay  his  bill,  he  is,  for 
the  time  being,  the  very  monarch  of  all  he  surveys.  The  arm- 
chair is  his  throne,  the  poker  his  sceptre,  and  the  little  parlor, 
of  some  twelve  feet  square,  his  undisputed  empire.  It  is  a 
morsel  of  certainty,  snatched  from  the  midst  of  the  uncer- 
tainties of  life ;  it  is  a  sunny  moment  gleaming  out  kindly  on 
a  cloudy  day ;  and  he  who  has  advanced  some  way  on  the 
pilgrimage  of  existence,  knows  the  importance  of  husbanding 
^ven  morsels  and  moments  of  enjoyment.  "  Shall  I  not  take 
mine  ease  in  mine  inn  ? "  thought  I,  as  I  gave  the  fire  a  stir, 
lolled  back  in  my  elbow-chair,  and  cast  a  complacent  look 
about  the  little  parlor  of  the  Red  Horse,  at  Stratford-on-Avon. 

The  words  of  sweet  Shakspeare  were  just  passing  through 
my  mind  as  the  clock  struck  midnight  from  the  tower  of  the 
church  in  which  he  lies  buried.  There  was  a  gentle  tap  at 
^he  door,  and  a  pretty  chambermaid,  putting  in  her  smiling 
face,  inquired,  with  a  hesitating  air,  whether  I  had  rung,  i 
understood  it  as  a  modest  hint  that  it  was  time  to  retire.  My 


256  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

dream  of  absolute  dominion  was  at  an  end  ;  so  abdicating  mi 
throne,  like  a  prudent  potentate,  to  avoid  being  deposed,  ani 
putting  the  Stratford  Guide-Book  under  my  arm,  as  a  pillow 
companion,  I  went  to  bed,  and'dreamt  all  night  of  Shakspeare, 
the  Jubilee,  and  David  Garrick. 

The  next  morning  was  one  of  those  quickening  mornings 
which  we  sometimes  have  in  early  spring  ;  for  it  was  about 
the  iiiiddle  of  March.  The  chills  of  a  long  winter  had  sud- 
denly given  way  ;  the  north  wind  had  spent  its  last  gasp 
and  a  mild  air  came  stealing  from  the  west,  breathing  the 
breach  of  life  into  nature,  and  wooing  every  bud  and  flower  to 
burst  forth  into  fragrance  and  beauty. 

I  had  come  to  Stratford  on  a  poetical  pilgrimage.  My 
first  visit  was  to  the  house  where  Shakspeare  was  born,  and 
where,  according  to  tradition,  he  was  brought  up  to  nis 
father's  craft  of  w^ool-combing.  It  is  a  small  mean-lookmg 
edifice  of  wood  and  plaster,  a  true  nestling  place  of  genius, 
which  seems  to  delight  in  hatching  its  offspring  in  by-corners. 
The  walls  of  its  squalid  chambers  are  covered  with  names  and 
inscriptions  in  every  language,  by  pilgrims  of  all  nations,  ranks^ 
and  conditions,  from  the  prince  to  the  peasant ;  and  present  a 
simple,  but  striking  instance  of  the  spontaneous  and  universal 
homage  of  mankind  to  the  great  poet  of  nature. 

The  house  is  shown  by  a  garrulous  old  lady,  in  a  frosty 
red  face,  lighted  up  by  a  cold  blue  anxious  eye,  and  garnished 
with  artificial  locks  of  flaxen  hair,  curling  from  under  an  ex- 
ceedingly dirty  cap.  She  was  peculiarly  assiduous  in  exhib- 
iting the  relics  with  which  this,  like  all  other  celebrated 
shrines,  abounds.  There  was  the  shattered  stock  of  the  very 
matchlock  with  which  Shakspeare  shot  the  deer,  on  his  poach- 
ing exploits.  There,  too,  was  his  tobacco-box  ;  which  proves 
that  he  was  a  rival  smoker  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  ;  the  sword 
also  with  which  he  played  Hamlet ;  and  the  identical  lantern 
with  which  Friar  Laurence  discovered  Romeo  and  Juliet  at  the 
tomb !  There  was  an  ample  supply  also  of  Shakspeare's 
mulberry-tree^  which  seems  to  have  as  extraordinary  powers  c# 


SKETC/f-IWO/sT  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  257 

"self-multiplication  as  the  wood  of  the  true  cross;  of  which 
there  is  enough  extant  to  build  a  ship  of  the  line. 

The  most  favorite  object  of  curiosity,  howeverj  is  Shak- 
speare's  chair.  It  stands  in  the  chimney-nook  of  a  small 
gloomy  chamber,  just  behind  what  was  his  father's  shop. 
Here  he  may  many  a  time  have  sat  when  a  boy,  watching  the 
slowly-revolving  spit,  with  all  the  longing  of  an  urchin  ;  or  of 
an  evening,  listening  to  the  crones  and  gossips  of  Stratford, 
dealing  forth  churchyard  tales  and  legendary  anecdotes  of  the 
troublesome  times  of  England.  In  this  chair  it  is  the  custom^ 
of  everyone  who  visits  the  house  to  sit :  whether  this  be  done 
with  the  hope  of  imbibing  any  of  the  inspiration  of  the  bard, 
I  am  at  a  loss  to  say ;  I  merely  mention  the  fact ;  and  mine 
hostess  privately  assured  me,  that,  though  built  of  solid  oak, 
such  was  the  fervent  zeal  of  devotees,  that  the  chair  had  to  be 
new-bottomed  at  least  once  in  three  years.  It  is  worthy  of 
notice  also,  in  the  history  of  this  extraoridinary  chair,  that  it 
partakes  something  of  the  volatile  nature  of  the  Santa  Casa 
of  Loretto,  or  the  flying  chair  of  the  Arabian  enchanter ;  for 
though  sold  some  few  years  since  to  a  northern  princess,  yet, 
strange  to  tell,  it  has  found  its  w^ay  back  again  to  the  old 
chimney-corner. 

I  am  always  of  easy  faith  in  such  matters,  and  am  very 
willing  to  be  deceived,  where  the  deceit  is  j^leasant  and  costs 
nothing.  I  am  therefore  a  ready  believer  in  relics,  legends, 
and  local  anecdotes  of  goblins  and  great  men ;  and  would 
advise  all  travellers  who  travel  for  their  gratification  to  be  the 
same.  What  is  it  to  us  whether  these  stories  be  true  or  false 
so  long  as  we  can  persuade  ourselves  into  the  belief  of  them, 
and  enjoy  all  the  charm  of  the  reality  ?  There  is  nothing  like 
resolute  good-humored  credulity  in  these  matters  t  and  on  this 
occasion  I  went  even  so  far  as  willingly  to  believe  the  clainiis 
of  mine  hostess  to  a  lineal  descent  from  the  poet,  when,  un- 
luckily for  my  faith,  she  put  into  my  hands  a  play  of  her  own 
composition,  which  set  all  belief  in  her  consanguinity  at 
defiance. 


258  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

From  the  birth-place  of  Shakspeare  a  few  paces  Drought 
me  to  his  grave.  He  Ues  buried  in  the  chancel  of  the  parisk 
church,  a  large  and  venerable  pile,  mouldering  with  age,  but 
richly  ornamented.  It  stands  on  the  banks  of  the  Avon,  on 
an  embowered  point,  and  separated  by  adjoining  gardens 
from  the  suburbs  of  the  town.  Its  situation  is  quiet  and 
retired  :  the  river  runs  murmuring  at  the  foot  of  the  church- 
yard, and  the  elms  which  grow  upon  its  banks  droop  their 
branches  into  its  clear  bosom.  An  avenue  of  limes,  the 
boughs  of  which  are  curiously  interlaced,  so  as  to  form  in 
summer  an  arched  way  of  foliage,  leads  up  from  the  gate  of 
the  yard  to  the  church  porch.  The  graves  are  overgrown 
Vith  grass  ;  the  gray  tombstones,  some  of  them  nearly  sunk 
into  the  earth,  are  half-covered  with  moss,  which  has  likewise 
tinted  the  reverend  old  building.  Small  birds  have  built'their 
nests  among  the  cornices  and  fissures  of  the  walls,  and  keep 
up  a  continual  flutter  and  chirping ;  and  rooks  are  sailing 
and  cawing  about  its  lofty  gray  spire. 

In  the  course  of  my  rambles  I  met  with  the  grayheaded 
sexton,  and  accompanied  him  home  to  get  the  key  of  the 
church.    He  had  lived  in  Stratford,  man  and  boy,  for  eighty 
years,  and  seemed  still  to  consider  himself  a  vigorous  man, 
with  the  trivial  exception  that  he  had  nearly  lost  the  use  of 
his  legs  for  a  few  years  past.    His  dwelling  was  a  cottage.^ 
looking  out  upon  the  Avon  and  its  borderin^^  meadows  ;  and 
was  a  picture  of  that  neatness,  order,  and  comfort,  which 
pervade  the  humblest  dwellin'^  in  this  countrv.    A  low  white- 
washed room,  with  a  stone  floor  carefully  scrubbed,  served  for 
parlor,  kitchen,  and  hall.   Rows  of  pewter  and  earthen  dishes 
glittered  along  the  dresser.    On  an  old  oaken  table,  well 
rubbed  and  polished,  lay  the  family  bible  and  prayer-book,  and 
the  drawer  contained  the  family  library,  composed  of  about 
half  a  score  of  well-thumbed  volumes.    An  ancient  clock,  that 
important  article  of  cottage  furniture,  ticked  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  room  ;  with  a  bright  warming-pan  hanging  on  one 
side  of  it,  and  the  old  man's  horn-handled  Sunday  cane  on  the 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  259 

<Other.  The  fire-place,  as  usual,  was  wide  and  deep  enough  to 
admit  a  gossip  knot  within  its  jambs.  In  one  corner  sat  the 
old  man's  grand-daughter  sewing,  a  pretty  bhie-eyed  girl, — and 
in  the  opposite  corner  was  a  superannuated  crony,  whom  he 
addressed  by  the  name  of  John  Ange,  and  who,  I  found,  had 
been  his  companion  from  childhood.  They  had  played  to- 
gether in  infancy;  they  had  worked  together  in  manhood; 
they  were  now  tottering  about  and  gossiping  away  the  evening 
of  life  ;  aiTd  in  a  short  time  they  will  probably  be  buried  to- 
gether in  the  neighboring  churchyard.  It  is  not  often  that  we 
see  two  streams  of  existence  running  thus  evenly  and  tran- 
quilly sids  by  side  ;  it  is  only  in  such  quiet  "  bosom  scenes 
of  life  that  they  are  to  be  met  with. 

I  had  hoped  to  gather  some  traditionary  anecdotes  of  the 
bard  from  these  ancient  chroniclers  ;  but  they  had  nothing 
new  to  impart.  The  long  interval,  during  which  Shakspeare's 
writings  lay  in  comparative  neglect,  has  spread  its  shadow  over 
history;  and  it  is  his  good  or  evil  lot,  that  scarcely  anything 
remains  to  his  biographers  but  a  scanty  handful  of  conjectures. 

The  sexton  and  his  companion  had  been  employed  as  car- 
penters, on  the  preparations  for  the  celebrated  Stratford 
jubilee,  and  they  remembered  Garrick,  the  prime  mover  of 
the  fete,  who  superintended  the  arrangements,  and  who,  ac- 
cording to  the  sexton,  was  "  a  short  punch  man,  very  lively 
and  bustling."  John  Ange  had  assisted  also  in  cutting  down 
Shakspeare's  mulberry-tree,  of  which  he  had  a  morsel  in  his 
pocket  for  sale  ;  no  doubt  a  sovereign  quickener  of  literary' 
conception. 

I  was  grieved  to  hear  these  two  worthy  wights  speak  ^•ery 
dubiously  of  the  eloquent  dame  who  shows  the  Shakspearc 
house.  John  Ange  shook  his  head  when  I  mentioned  her 
valuable  and  inexhaustible  collection  of  relics,  particularly  her 
remains  of  the  mulberry-tree  ;  and  the  old  sexton  even  ex- 
pressed a  doubt  as  to  Shakspeare  having  been  born  in  her 
house.  I  soon  discovered  that  he  looked  upon  her  mansion 
with  an  evil  eye,  as  a  rival  to  the  poet's  tomb  ;  the  latter 


26o  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

having  comparatively  but  few  visitors.  Thus  it  is  that  his^-- 
torians  differ  at  the  very  outset,  and  mere  pebbles  make  the 
stream  of  truth  diverge  into  different  channels,  even  at  the 
fountain-head. 

We  approached  the  church  through  the  avenue  of  limes,, 
and  entered  by  a  Gothic  porch,  highly  ornamented  with  carved 
doors  of  massive  oak.  The  interior  is  spacious,  and  the  ar- 
chitecture and  embellishments  superior  to  those  of  most 
country  churches.  There  are  several  ancient  monuments  of 
nobility  and  gentry,  over  some  of  which  hang  funeral  es- 
cutcheons, and  banners  dropping  piecemeal  from  the  walls. 
The  tomb  of  Shakspeare  is  in  the  chancel.  The  place  is 
solemn  and  sepulchral.  Tall  elms  wave  before  the  pointed 
windows,  and  the  Avon,  which  runs  at  a  short  distance  from 
the  walls,  keeps  up  a  low  perpetual  murmur.  A  flat  stone 
marks  the  spot  where  the  bard  is  buried.  There  are  four 
lines  inscribed  on  it,  said  to  have  been  written  by  himself,  and 
which  have  in  them  something  extremely  awful.  If  they  are 
indeed  his  own,  they  show  that  solicitude  about  the  quiet  of 
the  grave  which  seems  natural  to  fine  sensibilities  and: 
thoughtful  minds  : 

Good  friend,  for  Jesus'  sake,  forbeare 
To  dig  the  dust  inclosed  here. 
Blessed  be  he  that  spares  these  stones. 
And  curst  be  he  that  moves  my  bones. 

Just  over  the  grave,  in  a  niche  of  the  wall,  is  a  bust  oi' 
Shakspeare,  put  up  shortly  after  his  death,  and  considered  as 
a  resemblance.  The  aspect  is  pleasant  and  serene,  with  a 
finely  arched  forehead ;  and  I  thought  I  could  read  in  it  clear 
indications  of  that  cheerful,  social  disposition,  by  which  he 
was  as  much  characterized  among  his  contemporaries  as  by 
the  vastness  of  his  genius.  The  inscription  mentions  his  age 
at  the  time  of  his  decease — fifty-three  years  ;  an  untimely 
death  for  the  world  :  for  what  fruit  might  not  have  been  ex- 
pected from  the  golden  autumn  of  such  a  mind,  sheltered  as 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  Ck^A  YOA'     EJVT.    26 1 

it  was  from  the  stormy  vicissitudes  of  life,  and  liourishing  in 
the  sunshine  of  popular  and  royal  favor  ! 

The  inscription  on  the  tombstone  has  not  been  without  its 
effect;  It  has  prevented  the  removal  of  his  remains  from  the 
bosom  of  his  native  place  to  Westminster  Abbey,  which  was 
at  one  time  contemplated.  A  few  years  since  also,  as  some 
laborers  were  digging  to  make  an  adjoining  vault,  the  earth 
caved  in,  so  as  to  leave  a  vacant  space  almost  like  an  arch, 
through  which  one  might  have  reached  into  his  grave.  No 
OD^,  however,  presumed  to  meddle  with  the  remains  so  awfully 
guarded  by  a  malediction ;  and  lest  any  of  the  idle  or  the 
curious,  or  any  collector  of  relics,  should  be  tempted  to  com- 
mit depredations,  the  old  sexton  kept  watch  over  the  place 
for  tw^o  days,  until  the  vault  was  finished,  and  the  aperture 
closed  again.  He  told  me  that  he  had  made  bold  to  look  in 
at  the  hole,  but  could  see  neither  cofEn  nor  bones  ;  nothing 
but  dust.  It  was  something,  I  thought,  to  have  seen  the  dust 
of  Shakspeare. 

Next  to  this  grave  are  those  of  his  wdfe,  his  favorite 
daughter  Mrs.  Hall,  and  others  of  his  family.  On  a  tomb 
close  by,  also,  is  a  full-length  eftigy  of  his  old  friend  John 
Combe,  of  usurious  memory  ;  on  whom  he  is  said  to  have 
written  a  ludicrous  epitaph.  There  are  other  monuments 
around,  but  the  mind  refuses  to  dwell  on  anything  that  is  not 
connected  with  Shakspeare.  His  idea  pervades  the  place — 
the  whole  pile  seems  but  as  his  mausoleum.  The  feelings,  no 
longer  checked  and  thwarted  by  doubt,  here  indulge  in  perfect 
confidence  ;  other  traces  of  him  may  be  false  or  dubious,  but 
Jiere  is  palpable  evidence  and  absolute  certainty.  As  I  trod 
the  sounding  pavement,  there  was  something  intense  and 
thrilling  in  the  idea,  that,  in  very  truth,  the  remains  of  Shak- 
speare were  mouldering  beneath  my  feet.  It  was  a  long 
time  before  I  could  prevail  upon  myself  to  leave  the  place 
and  as  I  passed  through  the  churchyard,  I  plucked  a  branch 
from  one  of  the  yew-trees,  the  only  relic  that  I  have  brought 
from  Stratford^ 


262  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

I  had  now  visited  the  usual  objects  of  a  pilgrim's  devotion^ 
but  I  had  a  desire  to  see  the  old  family  seat  of  the  Lucys  at 
Charlecot,  and  to  ramble  through  the  park  where  Shakspeare,, 
ill  company  with  some  of  the  roisterers  of  Stratford,  committed 
his  youthful  offence  of  deer-stealing.  In  this  hairbrained 
exploit  we  are  told  that  he  was  taken  prisoner,  and  carried  ta 
the  keeper's  lodge,  where  he  remained  all  night  in  doleful 
captivity.  When  brought  into  the  presence  of  Sir  Thomas 
Lucy,  his  treatment  must  have  been  galling  and  humiliating  ; 
for  it  so  wrought  upon  his  spirit  as  to  produce  a  rough  pas- 
quinade, which  was  affixed  to  the  park  gate  at  Charlecot.* 

This  flagitious  attack  upon  the  dignity  of  the  Knight  so^ 
Incensed  him,  that  he  applied  to  a  lawyer  at  Warwick  to 
put  tru  .severity  of  the  laws  in  force  against  the  rhyming  deer- 
stalker. Shakspeare  did  not  wait  to  brave  the  united  pu-- 
issance  of  a  Knight  of  the  Shire  and  a  country  attorney. 
He  forthwith  abandoned  the  pleasant  banks  of  the  Avo^ 
and  his  paternal  trade  ;  wandered  away  to  London  ;  became 
a  hanger-on  to  the  theatres  ;  then  an  actor ;  and,  finally, 
wrote  for  the  stage ;  and  thus,  through  the  persecution  of  Sir 
Thomas  Lucy,  Stratford  lost  an  indifferent  wool-com.ber,  and 
the  world  gained  an  immortal  poet.  He  retained,  however^ 
for  a  long  time,  a  sense  of  the  harsh  treatment  of  the  Lord  of 
Charlecot,  and  revenged  himself  in  his  writings  ;  but  in  the 
^r/ortive  way  of  a  good-natured  mind.  Sir  Thomas  is  said  to 
oe  the  original  of  Justice  Shallow,  and  the  satire  is  slyly  fixed 
%ipox\  him  by  the  Justice's  armorial  bearings,  which,  like  thosa 
fj.  the  Knight,  had  white  luces  f  in  the  quarterings. 

*  The  following  is  the  only  stanza  extant  of  this  lampoon  ; 
A  parliament  member,  a  justice  of  peace, 
At  home  a  poor  scarecrow,  at  London  an  assc, 
If  lowsie  is  Lucy,  as  some  volke  miscalle  it, 
Then  Lucy  is  lowsie.  whatever  befall  it. 

He  thinks  himself  great  ; 

Yet  an  asse  in  his  state, 
We  allow  by  his  ears  with  but  asses  to  mate. 
If  Lucy  is  lowsie,  as  some  volke  miscalle  it, 
Then  sing  lowsie  Lucy,  whatever  befall  it. 

f  Fhe  luce  is  a  pike  or  jack,  and  abounds  in  the  Avon,  about  Char* 
Iccot. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  263 


Various  attempts  have  been  made  by  his  biographers  to 
soften  and  explam  away  this  early  transgression  of  the  poet  ; 
but  I  look  upon  it  as  one  of  those  thoughtless  exploits  natural 
to  his  situation  and  turn  of  mind.  Shakspeare,  when  youngs 
had  doubtless  all  the  wildness  and  irregularity  of  an  ardent^ 
undisciplined,  and  undirected  genius.  The  poetic  tempera- 
ment has  naturally  something  in  it  of  the  vagabond.  When 
left  to  itself,  it  runs  loosely  and  wildly,  and  delights  in  every- 
thing eccentric  and  licentious.  It  is  often  a  turn-up  of  a  die, 
in  the  gambling  freaks  of  fate,  whether  a  natural  genius  shall 
turn  out  a  great  rogue  or  a  great  poet ;  and  had  not  Shak- 
spearc's  mind  fortunately  taken  a  literary  bias,  he  might  have 
as  daringly  transcended  all  civil,  as  he  has  all  dramatic  laws. 

I  have  little  doubt  that,  in  early  life,  when  running,  like 
an  unbroken  colt,  about  the  neighborhood  of  Stratford,  he 
was  to  be  found  in  the  company  of  all  kinds  of  odd  and 
anomalous  characters  ;  that  he  associated  with  all  the  madcaps 
of  the  place,  and  was  one  of  those  unlucky  urchins,  at  mention 
of  whom  old  men  shake  their  heads,  and  predict  that  they 
will  one  day  come  to  the  gallows.  To  him  the  poaching  in 
Sir  Thomas  Lucy's  park  was  doubtless  like  a  foray  to  a  Scot- 
tish Knight,  and  struck  his  eager,  and  as  yet  untamed,  imag- 
ination, as  something  delightfully  adventurous.*  ^ 

*  A  proof  of  Shakspcare's  random  habits  and  associates  In  his  youth- 
ful  days  may  be  found  in  a  traditionary  anecdote,  picked  up  at  Stratford 
by  the  elder  Ireland,  and  mentioned  in  his  Picturesque  Views  on  the 
Avon." 

About  seven  miles  from  Stratford  lies  the  thirsty  little  market  town  of 
Bedford,  famous  for  its  ale.  Two  societies  of  the  village  yeomanry  used  to 
meet,  under  the  apl^ellation  of  the  Bedford  topers,  and  to  challenge  the 
lovers  of  good  ale  of  the  neighboring  villages,  to  a  contesv  of  drinking 
Among  others,  the  people  of  Stratford  were  called  out  U  prove  the 
strength  of  their  heads  ;  and  in  the  number  of  the  chanipi'm.*?  was  Shak- 
speare, who,  in  spite  of  the  proverb,  that  "  they  who  drink  beci  will  think 
beer,"  was  as  true  to  his  ale  as  Falstaff  to  his  sack.  The  chivalry  of  Strat- 
ford was  staggered  at  the  first  onset,  and  sounded  a  retreat  while  they  had 
legs  to  carry  them  off  the  field.  They  had  scarcely  marched  a  mile, 
when,  their  legs  failing  them,  they  were  forced  to  lie  down  under  a  crab- 


564  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  m ^/NG, 


The  old  mansion  of  Charlecot  arvd  its  surrounding  park 
still  remain  in  the  possession  of  the  Lucy  family,  and  are 
peculiarly  interesting  from  being  connec<ed  with  this  whimsical 
but  eventful  circumstance  in  the  scanty  history  of  the  bard. 
As  the  house  stood  at  little  more  than  three  miles'  distance 
from  Stratford,  I  resolved  to  pay  it  a  pedestrian  visit,  that  I 
might  stroll  leisurely  through  some  of  those  scenes  from  which 
Shakspeare  must  have  derived  his  earliest  ideas  of  rural  im- 
agery. 

The  country  was  yet  naked  and  leafless ;  but  English 
scenery  is  always  verdant,  and  the  sudden  change  in  the  tem- 
perature of  the  weather  was  surprising  in  its  quickening  effects 
upon  the  landscape.  It  was  inspiring  and  animating  to  wit- 
ness this  first  awakening  of  spring  ;  to  feel  its  warm  breath 
stealing  over  the  senses  ;  to  see  the  moist  mellow  earth  be- 
ginning to  put  forth  the  green  sprout  and  the  tender  blade ; 
and  the  trees  and  shrubs,  in  their  reviving  tints  and  bursting 
buds,  giving  the  promise  of  returning  foliage  and  flower.  The 
cold  snow-drop,  that  little  borderer  on  the  skirts  of  winter, 
was  to  be  seen  wath  its  chaste  white  blossoms  in  the  small 
gardens  before  the  cottages.  The  bleating  of  the  new-dropt 
iambs  was  faintly  heard  from  the  fields.  The  sparrow  twittered 
about  the  thatched  eaves  and  budding  hedges  ;  the  robin 
threw  a  livelier  note  into  his  late  querulous  wintry  strain  ;  and 
the  lark,  springing  up  from  the  reeking  bosom  of  the  meadow, 

tree,  where  they  passed  the  night.  It  is  still  standing,  and  goes  by  the 
name  of  Shakspeare's  tree. 

In  the  morning  his  companions  awaked  the  bard,  and  proposed  return- 
ing to  Bedford,  but  he  declined,  saying  he  had  had  enough,  having  drunk 
c?ith' 

Piping  Peb worth,  Dancing  Marston, 
Haunted  Hiibro*,  Hungry  Grafton, 
Drudging  Exhall,  Papist  Wicksford, 
Beggarly  Broom,  and  drunken  Bedford. 

'^'The  villages  here  alluded  to,"  says  Ireland,"  still  bear  the  epithets  thus 
gk«eB  them :  the  people  of  Pebworth  are  still  famed  for  their  skill  on  the 
^ipc  axid  tabor;  Hillbcwrough  is  now  called  Uauated  Hillborough;  and 
^f^^n  S3  famous  for  the  poverty  of  its  soil. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT,  265 


towered  away  into  the  bright  fleecy  cloud,  pouring  forth  torrents 
of  melody.  As  I  watched  the  little  songster,  mounting  up 
higher  and  higher,  until  his  body  was  a  mere  speck  on  the 
white  bosom  of  the  cloud,  while  the  ear  was  still  iilled  with 
his  music,  it  called  10  mind  Shakspeare's  exquisite  little  song 
ia  Cymbeline  : 

Hark  \  hark  !  the  lark  at  heav'n's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs, 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies. 

And  winking  mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes  ; 
Withftvery  thing  that  pretty  bin, 

My  lady  sweet,  arise  ! 

Indeed,  the  whole  country  about  here  is  poetic  ground  : 
everything  is  associated  with  the  idea  of  Shakspeare.  Every 
Old  cottage  that  I  saw,  I  fancied  into  some  resort  of  his  boy- 
hood, where  he  had  acquired  his  intimate  knowledge  of  rustic 
life  and  manners,  and  heard  those  legendary  tales  and  wild 
superstitions  which  he  has  woven  like  witchcraft  itito  his 
dramas.  For  in  his  time,  we  are  told,  it  was  a  popular  amuse- 
ment in  winter  evenings  to  sit  round  the  fire,  and  tell  merry 
tales  of  errant  knights,  queens,  lovers,  lords,  ladies,  giants, 
dwarfs,  thieves,  cheaters,  witches,  fairies,  goblins,  and  friars."  * 

My  route  for  a  part  of  the  way  lay  in  sight  of  the  Avoriy 
which  made  a  variety  of  the  most  fanciful  doublings  and  wind- 
ings through  a  wide  and  fertile  valley  :  sometimes  glittering; 
from  among  willows,  which  fringed  its  borders  ;  sometimes 
disappearing  among  groves,  or  beneath  green  banks  ;  and 

*  Scot,  in  his  "  Discoverie  of  Witchcraft,"  enumerates  a  host  of  these 
fire-side  fancies.  "  And  they  have  so  fraid  us  with  bull-beggers,  spirits* 
witches,  urchins,  elves,  hags,  fairies,  satyrs,  pans,  faunes,  syrens,  kit  with 
the  can  sticke,  tritons,  centaurs,  dwarfes,  giantes,  imps,  calcars,  conjurors, 
nymphes,  changelings,  incubus,  Robin-good  fellow,  the  sporne,  the  marc, 
the  man  in  the  oke,  the  hellwaine,  the  fier  drake,  the  puckle,  Tom  Thombe^ 
hobgoblins,  Tom  Tumbler,  boneless,  and  such  other  bugs,  that  wc  were 
afraid  of  our  own  s^adowes." 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


sometimes  rambling  out  into  full  view,  and  making  an  azure 
sweep  round  a  slope  of  meadow  land.  This  beautiful  bosom 
of  country  is  called  the  Vale  of  the  Red  Horse.  A  distant 
line  of  undulacing  blue  hills  seems  to  be  its  boundary,  whnst 
all  the  soft  i'^tervening  landscape  lies  in  a  manner  enchained 
in  the  silver  links  of  th^  Avon. 

After  pursuing  the  road  for  about  three  miles,  I  turned  ofi' 
into  a  foot-path,  which  led  along  the  borders  of  fields  and 
under  hedge-rows  to  a  private  gate  of  the  park  ;  there  was  a 
stile,  however,  for  the  benefit  of  the  pedestrian  ;  there  being 
a  public  right  of  way  through  the  grounds.  I  delight  in  these 
hospitable  estates,  in  which  everyone  has  a  kind  of  property 
^ — at  least  as  far  as  the  foot-path  is  concerned.  It  in  some 
measure  reconciles  a  poor  man  to  his  lot,  and  what  is  more, 
to  the  better  lot  of  his  neighbor,  thus  to  have  parks  and  pleas- 
ure-grounds thrown  open  for  his  recreation.  He  breathes  the 
pure  air  as  freely,  and  lolls  as  luxuriously  under  the  shade,  as 
the  lord  of  the  soil ;  and  if  he  has  not  the  privilege  of  calling 
all  that  he  sees  his  own,  he  has  not,  at  the  same  time,  the 
ff^ouble      paying  for  it,  and  keeping  it  in  order. 

1  now  found  myself  among  noble  avenues  of  oaks  and  elms, 
whose  vast  size  bespoke  the  growth  of  centuries.  The  wind 
sounded  solemnly  among  their  branches,  and  the  rooks  cawed 
from  their  hereditary  nests  in  the  tree  tops.  The  eye  ranged 
through  a  long  lessening  vista,  with  nothing  to  interrupt  the 
view  but  a  distant  statue  ;  and  a  vagrant  deer  stalking  like  a 
shadow  across  the  opening. 

There  is  something  about  these  stately  old  avenues  that 
iias  the  effect  of  Gothic  architecture,  not  merely  from  the  pre- 
tended similarity  of  form,  but  from  their  bearing  the  evidence 
of  long  duration,  and  of  having  had  their  origin  in  a  period 
of  time  with  which  we  associate  ideas  of  romantic  grandeur. 
They  betoken  also  the  long-settled  dignity,  and  proudly  con- 
centrated independence  of  an  ancient  family  ;  and  I  have  heard 
a  worthy  but  aristocratic  old^  friend  observe,  when  speaking 
of  the  sumptuous  palaces  of  modern  gentry,  that  "  money 


SKETCir-BOCK  CP  GEC^PI^^  .   .A,  CENT.  267 

could  do  much  with  stone  and  mortar,  but,  thank  Heaven, 
there  was  no  such  thing  as  suddenly  building  up  an  avenue  of 
oaks.'^ 

It  was  from  wandering  in  early  life  among  this  rich  scenery,  . 
and  about  the  romantic  solitudes  of  the  adjoining  park  of 
Fullbroke,  which  then  formed  a  part  of  the  Lucy  estate,  that 
some  of  Shakspeare's  commentators  have  supposed  he  derived 
his  noble  forest  meditations  of  Jacques,  and  the  enchanting 
woodland  pictures  in  "  As  you  like  it."  It  is  in  lonely  wander- 
ings through  such  scenes,  that  the  mind  drinks  deep  but  quiet 
draughts  of  inspiration,  and  becomes  intensely  sensible  of  the 
beauty  and  majesty  of  nature.  The  imagination  kindles  into 
reverie  and  rapture  ;  vague  but  exquisite  images  and  ideas 
keep  breaking  upon  it ;  and  we  revel  in  a  mute  and  almost 
incommunicable  luxury  of  thought.  It  was  in  some  such  mood, 
and  perhaps  under  one  of  those  very  trees  before  me,  which 
threw  their  broad  shades  over  the  grassy  banks  and  quiver- 
ing waters  of  the  Avon,  that  the  poet's  fancy  may  have  sallied 
forth  into  that  little  song  which  breathes  the  very  soul  of  a 
xural  voluptuary  : 

Under  the  green- v/ood  tree, 

Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 

And  tune  his  merry  throat 

Unto  the  sweet  bird's  note, 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither, 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy — — 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

I  had  now^  come  in  sight  of  the  house.  It  is  a  large  building 
of  brick,  with  stone  quoins,  and  is  in  the  Gothic  style  of 
Queen  Elizabeth's  day,  having  been  built  in  the  first  year  of 
her  reign.  The  exterior  remains  very  nearly  in  its  original 
state,  and  may  be  considered  a  fair  specimen  of  the  resident  c 
of  a  wealthy  country  gentleman  of  those  days.  A  great  gatt  v 
way  opens  from  the  park  into  a  kind  of  court-yard  in  front  at 
the  house,  ornamented  with  a  grass-plot,  shrubs,  and  flower- 


268 


WORKS  OF  WASHTNGTOISf  IRVING.^ 


beds.  The  gateway  is  in  imitation  of  the  ancient  barbican ; 
being  a  kind  of  outpost,  and  flanked  by  towers  ;  though  evi- 
dently for  mere  ornament,  instead  of  defence.  The  front  of 
the  house  is  completely  in  the  old  style  ;  with  stone  shafted 
casements,  a  great  bow-window  of  heavy  stone  work,  and  a 
portal  with  armorial  bearings  over  it,  carved  in  stone.  At 
each  corner  of  the  building  is  an  octagon  tower,  surmounted 
by  a  gilt  ball  and  weathercock. 

The  Avon,  which  wdnds  through  the  park,  makes  a  bend 
just  at  the  foot  of  a  gently  sloping  bank,  which  sweeps  down 
from  the  rear  of  the  house.-  Large  herds  of  deer  were  feeding 
or  reposing  upon  its  borders  ;  and  swans  were  sailing  majes- 
tically upon  its  bosom.  As  I  contemplated  the  venerable  old 
mansion,  I  called  to  mind  Falstaff's  encomium  on  justice 
Shallow's  abode,  and  the  affected  indifference  and  real  vanity 
of  the  latter  : 

"  Falstaff.    You  have  here  a  goodly  dwelling  and  a  rich. 
^''Shallow.    Barren,  barren,  barren;  beggars  all,  beggars  all,  Sir  John  : 
—marry,  good  air." 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  joviality  of  the  old  mansion 
in  the  days  of  Shakspeare,  it  had  now  an  air  of  stillness  and 
solitude.  The  great  iron  gateway  that  opened  into  the  court- 
yard was  locked  •  there  was  no  show  of  servants  bustling  about 
the  place  ;  the  deer  gazed  quietly  at  me  as  I  passed,  being  no 
longer  harried  by  the  moss-troopers  of  Stratford.  The  only 
sign  of  domestic  life  that  I  met  with,  was  a  white  cat,  stealing 
with  war}^  look  and  stealthy  pace  towards  the  stables,  as  if  on 
some  nefarious  expedition.  I  must  not  omit  to  mention  the 
carcass  of  a  scoundrel  crow  which  I  saw  suspended  against 
the  barn  w^all,  as  it  shows  that  the  Lucys  still  inherit  that 
lordly  abhorrence  of  poachers,  and  maintain  that  rigorous 
exercise  of  territoral  power  which  was  so  strenuously  mani- 
fested in  the  case  of  the  bard. 

After  prowling  about  for  some  time,  I  at  length  found  my 
way  to  a  lateral  portal,  which  was  the  every-day  entrance  to 
the  mansion.  I  was  courteously  received  by  a  worthy  old  house^ 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  26^ 

keeper,  who,  with  the  civihty  and  communicativeness  of  her 
order,  showed  me  the  interior  of  the  house.  The  greater  part 
has  undergone  alterations,  and  been  adapted  to  modern  tastes 
and  modes  of  living :  there  is  a  fine  old  oaken  staircase  ;  and 
the  great  hall,  that  noble  feature  in  an  ancient  manor-house, 
still  retains  much  of  the  appearance  it  must  have  had  in  the 
days  of  Shakspeare.  The  ceiling  is  arched  and  lofty  ;  and 
at  one  end  is  a  gallery,  in  which  stands  an  organ.  The 
weapons  and  trophies  of  the  chase,  which  formerly  adorned 
the  hall  of  a  country  gentleman,  have  made  way  for  family- 
portraits.  There  is  a  wide  hospitable  fire-place,  calculated  for 
an  ample  old-fashioned  wood  fire,  formerly  the  rallying  place 
of  winter  festivity.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  hall  is  the 
huge  Gothic  bow-window,  with  stone  shafts,  which  looks  out 
upon  the  court-yard.  Here  are  emblazoned  in  stained  glass 
the  armorial  bearings  of  the  Lucy  family  for  many  generations, 
some  being  dated  in  1558.  I  was  delighted  to  observe  in  the 
quarterings  the  three  White  luces  by  which  the  character  of  Sir 
Thomas  was  first  identified  wdth  that  of  Justice  Shallow.  They 
are  mentioned  in  the  first  scene  of  the  Merry  Wives  of  Wind- 
sor, where  the  Justice  is  in  a  rage  with  Falstaff  for  havings 
"  beaten  his  men,  killed  his  deer,  and  broken  into  his  lodge.'' 
The  poet  had  no  doubt  the  offences  of  himself  and  his  com- 
rades in  mind  at  the  time,  and  we  may  suppose  the  family 
pride  and  vindictive  threats  of  the  puissant  Shallow  to  be  a 
caricature  of  the  pompous  indignation  of  Sir  Thomas. 

''Shallow.  Sir  Hugh,  persuade  me  not :  T  will  make  a  Star-Chamber 
matter  of  it ;  if  he  were  twenty  Sir  John  Falstaffs,  he  shall  not  abuse 
Kobert  Shallow,  Esq. 

Sleitder,  In  the  county  of  Gloster,  justice  of  peace,  and  coram^ 

Shallow.  Ay,  cousin  Slender,  and  custalorum. 

Slender.  Ay,  and  ratalorum  too,  and  a  gentleman  born,  master 
parson  ;  who  writes  himself  Armigero  in  any  bill,  warrant,  quittance,  or 
obligation,  Armigero. 

"  Shallow,  Ay,  that  I  do;  and  have  done  any  time  these  three  hundred 
years. 

"  Slender.  All  his  successors  gone  before  him  have  done  *t,  and  all  kui 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


ancestors  that  come  after  him  may  ;  they  may  give  the  dozen  whiU  tueet 
in  their  coat. 

Shallow,  The  council  shall  hear  it ;  it  is  a  riot 
"  Evans.  It  is  not  meet  the  council  hear  of  a  riot ;  there  is  no  fear  of  Got 
in  a  riot:  the  council,  hear  you,  shall  desire  to  hear  the  fear  o^  Got,  and 
not  to  hear  a  riot;  take  your  vizaments  in  that- 

*'  Shallow.  Ha  !  o*  my  life,  if  I  were  young  again,  the  sword  should  end 
it !  " 

Near  the  window  thus  emblazoned  hung  a  portrait  by 
Sir  Peter  Lely  of  one  of  the  Lucy  family,  a  great  beauty  of 
the  time  of  Charles  the  Second  :  the  old  housekeeper  shook 
her  head  as  she  pointed  to  the  picture,  and  informed  me  that 
this  lady  had  been  sadly  addicted  to  cards,  and  had  gambled 
away  a  great  portion  of  the  family  estate,  among  which  was 
that  part  of  the  park  'where  Shakspeare  and  his  comrades 
had  killed  the  deer.  The  lands  thus  lost  have  not  been 
entirely  regained  by  the  family,  even  at  the  present  day.  It 
is  but  justice  to  this  recreant  dame  to  confess  that  she  had 
a  surpassingly  fine  hand  and  arm. 

The  picture  which  most  attracted  my  attention  was  a  great 
painting  over  the  fire-place,  containing  likenesses  of  Sir 
Thomas  Lucy  and  his  family,  who  inhabited  the  hall  in  the 
latter  part  of  Shakspeare's  lifetime.  I  at  first  thought  that  it 
was  the  vindictive  knight  himself,  but  the  housekeeper  assured 
-me  that  it  was  his  son;  the  only  likeness  extant  of  the  former 
being  an  effigy  upon  his  tomb  in  the  church  of  the  neighboring 
hamlet  of  Charlecot.  The  picture  gives  a  lively  idea  of  the 
costume  and  manners  of  the  time.  Sir  Thomas  is  dressed  in 
ruff  and  doublet ;  white  shoes  with  roses  in  them  ;  and  has  a 
peaked  yellow,  or,  as  Master  Slender  would  say,  "  a  cane- 
colored  beard."  His  lady  is  seated  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  picture  in  wide  ruff  and  long  stomacher,  and  the  chil- 
dren have  a  most  venerable  stiffness  and  formality  of  dress. 
Hounds  and  spaniels  are  mingled  in  the  family  group  ;  a  hawk 
is  seated  on  his  perch  in  the  foreground,  and  one  of  the  chil- 
dren holds  a  bow  ; — all  intimating  the  knight^s  skill  in  hun^* 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.    27 y 

Ing,  hawking,  and  archery — so  indispensable  to  an  accom- 
plished gentleman  in  those  days.* 

I  regretted  to  find  that  the  ancient  furniture  of  the  hall  had 
disappeared  ;  for  I  had  hoped  to  meet  with  the  stately  elbow- 
chair  of  carved  oak,  in  which  the  country  'Squire  of  former 
rlays  was  wont  to  sway  the  sceptre  of  empire  over  his  rural 
domains ;  and  in  which  it  might  be  presumed  the  redoubted 
Sir  Thomas  sat  enthroned  in  awful  state,  when  the  recreant 
Shakspeare  was  brought  before  him.  As  I  like  to  deck  out 
pictures  for  my  own  entertainment,  I  pleased  myself  with  the 
idea  that  this  very  hall  had  been  the  scene  of  the  unlucky 
bard's  examination  on  the  morning  after  his  captivity  in  the 
lod^e.  I  fancied  to  myself  the  rural  potentate,  surrounded 
by  his  body-guard  of  butler,  pages,  and  blue-coated  serving- 
men  with  their  badges;  while  the  luckless  culprit  was  brought 
in,  forlorn  and  chapfallen,  in  the  custody  of  game-keepers, 
huntsmen,  and  whippers-in,  and  followed  by  a  rabble  rout  of 
country  clowns.  I  fancied  bright  faces  of  curious  house- 
maids peeping  from  the  half-opened  doors  ;  while  from  the 
gallery  the  fair  daughters  of  the  Knight  leaned  gracefully 
forward,  eyeing  the  youthful  prisoner  with  that  pity  that 
dwells  in  womanhood." — Who  would  have  thought  that  this 
poor  varlet,  thus  trembling  before  the  brief  authority  of  a 
country  'Squire,  and  the  sport  of  rustic  boors,  was  soon  to 
become  the  delight  of  princes  ;  the  theme  of  all  tongues  and 
ages ;  the  dictator  to  the  human  mind  ;  and  was  to  confer  im- 
mortality on  his  oppressor  by  a  caricature  and  a  lampoon  ! 

*  Bishop  Earle,  speaking  of  the  country  gentleman  of  his  time,  observes, 
"  his  housekeeping  is  seen  much  in  the  different  families  of  dogs,  and 
serving-men  attendant  on  their  kennels;  and  the  deepness  of  their  throats 
is  the  depth  of  his  discourse.  A  hawk  he  esteems  the  true  burden  of 
nobility,  and  is  exceedingly  ambitious  to  seem  delighted  with  the  sport, 
and  have  his  fist  gloved  with  his  jesses."  And  Gilpin,  in  his  description 
of  a  Mr.  Hastings,  remarks,  **  he  l^ept  ail  sorts  of  hounds  that  run,  buck, 
fox,  hare,  otter,  and  badger  ;  and  had  hawks  of  all  kinds,  both  long  and 
short  winged.  His  great  hall  was  commonly  strewed  with  marrow-bones, 
and  full  of  hawk-perches,  hounds,  spaniels,  and  terriers.  On  a  broad  hearth^ 
paved  with  brick,  lay  some  of  the  choicest  terriers,  hounds  and  spaniels." 


275  WORK'S  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 

I  was  now  invited  by  the  butler  to  walk  into  the  garden^, 
and  I  felt  inclined  to  visit  the  orchard  and  arbor  where  the 
Justice  treated  Sir  John  Falstaff  and  Cousin  Silence  "  to  a 
last  year's  pippen  of  his  own  graffing,  with  a  dish  of  carra- 
ways  ; "  but  I  had  already  spent  so  much  of  the  day  in  my  ram- 
bling,  that  I  was  obliged  to  give  up  any  farther  investigations. 
When  about  to  take  my  leave,  I  was  gratified  by  the  civil 
entreaties  of  the  housekeeper  and  butler,  that  I  would  take 
some  refreshment — an  instance  of  good  old  hospitality,  which 
I  grieve  to  say  we  castle-hunters  seldom  meet  with  in  modern 
days.  I  make  no  doubt  it  is  a  virtue  which  the  present 
representative  of  the  Lucys  inherits  from  his  ancestors  ;  for 
Shakspeare,  even  in  his  caricature,  makes  Justice  Shallow 
importunate  in  this  respect,  as  witness  his  pressing  instances 
to  Falstaff. 

*'  By  cock  and  pye,  Sir,  you  shall  not  away  to-night  *  *  *  *.  I  vvill 
not  excuse  you  ;  you  shall  not  be  excused;  excuses  shall  not  be  admitted  ; 
there  is  no  excuse  shall  serve ;  you  shall  not  be  excused  *  *  *  Some 
pigeons,  Davy  ;  a  couple  of  short-legged  hens  ;  a  joint  of  mutton  ;  and 
any  pretty  little  tiny  kickshaws,  tell  '  William  Cook.'  " 

I  now  bade  a  reluctant  farewell  to  the  old  hall.  Mv^ 
mind  had  become  so  completely  possessed  by  the  imaginary 
scenes  and  characters  connected  with  it,  that  I  seemed  to  be 
actually  living  among  them.  Everything  brought  them  as  it 
were  before  my  eyes ;  and  as  the  door  of  the  dining-room 
opened,  I  almost  expected  to  hear  the  feeble  voice  of  Master 
Silence  quavering  forth  his  favorite  ditty : 

"  'Tis  merry  in  hall,  when  beards  wag  all, 
And  welcome  merry  Shrove-tide  !  ^* 

On  returning  to  my  inn,  I  could  not  but  reflect  on  the 
singular  gift  of  the  poet ;  to  be  able  thus  to  spread  the  magic 
of  his  mind  over  the  very  face  of  nature  ;  to  give  to  things  and 
places  a  charm  and  character  not  their  own,  and  to  turn  this 
*^  working-day  world  "  into  a  perfect  fairy  land.  He  is  indeed, 
the  true  enchanter,  whose  spell  operates,  not  upon  the  senses,, 
but  upon  the  imagination  and  the  heart.    Under  the  wizard 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  273 

influence  of  Shakspeare  I  had  been  walking  all  day  in  a 
complete  delusion.  I  had  surveyed  the  landscape  through 
the  prism  of  poetry,  which  tinged  every  object  with  the  hues 
of  the  rainbow.  I  had  been  surrounded  with  fancied  beings  ; 
with  mere  airy  nothings,  conjured  up  by  poetic  power  ;  yet 
which,  to  me,  had  all  the  charm  of  reality.  I  had  heard 
Jacques  soliloquize  beneath  his  oak  ;  had  beheld  the  fair  Rosa- 
lind and  her  companion  adventuring  through  the  woodlands  ; 
and,  above  all,  had  been  once  more  present  in  spirit  with  fat 
Jack  Falstaff,  and  his  contemporaries,  from  the  august  Justice 
Shallow,  down  to  the  gentle  Master  Slender,  and  the  sweet 
Anne  Page.  Ten  thousand  honors  and  blessings  on  the  bard 
who  has  thus  gilded  the  dull  realities  of  life  with  innocent 
illusions  ;  who  has  spread  exquisite  and  unbought  pleasures  in 
my  checkered  path,  and  beguiled  my  spirit  in  many  a  lonely 
hour,  with  all  the  cordial  and  cheerful  sympathies  of  social 
life ! 

As  I  crossed  the  bridge  over  the  Avon  on  my  return,  I 
paused  to  contemplate  the  distant  church  in  which  the  poet 
lies  buried,  and  could  not  but  exult  in  the  malediction  which 
has  kept  his  ashes  undisturbed  in  its  quiet  and  hallowed 
vaults.  What  honor  could  his  name  have  derived  from  being 
mingled  in  dusty  companionship  with  the  epitaphs  and  es- 
cutcheons and  venal  eulogiums  of  a  titled  multitude  ?  What 
would  a  crowded  corner  in  Westminster  Abbey  have  been, 
compared  with  this  reverend  pile,  which  seems  to  stand  in 
beautiful  loneliness  as  his  sole  mausoleum  !  The  solicitude 
about  the  grave  may  be  but  the  offspring  of  an  overwrought 
sensibility  ;  but  human  nature  is  made  up  of  foibles  and  prej- 
udices ;  and  its  best  and  tenderest  affections  are  mingled 
with  these  factitious  feelings.  He  who  has  sought  renown 
about  the  world,  and  has  reaped  a  full  harvest  of  worldly  favor, 
will  find,  after  all,  that  there  is  no  love,  no  admiration,  no 
applause,  so  sweet  to  the  soul  as  that  which  springs  up  in 
his  native  place.  It  is  there  that  he  seeks  to  be  gathered  in 
peace  and  honor,  among  his  kindred  and  his  early  friends. 


274  WOKA'S  OF  IVASIIIXGFOX  IRVING. 

And  when  the  weary  heart  and  faiHng  head  began  to  wan^ 
fiim  that  the  evening  of  life  is  drawing  on,  he  turns  as  fondly 
as  does  the  infant  to  the  mother's  arms,  to  sink  to  sleep  in 
the  bosom  of  the  scene  of  his  childhood. 

How  would  it  have  cheered  the  spirit  of  the  youthful  bard^, 
when,  wandering  forth  in  disgrace  upon  a  doubtful  world,  h^i, 
cast  back  a  heavy  look  upon  his  paternal  home,  could  he  hav<i 
foreseen  that,  before  many  years,  he  should  return  to  it  cov- 
ered with  renown  ;  that  his  name  should  become  the  boast 
and  glory  of  his  native  place ;  that  his  ashes  should  be  relig- 
iously guarded  as  its  most  precious  treasure  ;  and  that  its  les^ 
sening  spire,  on  which  his  eyes  were  fixed  in  tearful  contempla- 
tion, should  one  day  become  the  beacon,  towering  amidsL 
the  gentle  landscape,  to  guide  the  literary  pilgrim  of  every 
'ftation  to  his  tomb ! 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  C^.A  YON.  GENT,  (jjij 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER, 

"  I  appeal  to  any  white  man  if  ever  he  entered  Logan's  cabin  hungry, 
iind  he  gave  him  not  to  eat ;  if  ever  he  came  cold  and  naked,  and  he 
clothed  him  not." — Speech  of  an  Indian  Chief. 

There  is  something  in  the  character  and  habits  of  the 
North  American  savage,  taken  in  connection  with  the  scenery- 
over  which  he  is  accustomed  to  range,  its  vast  lakes,  bound- 
less forests,  majestic  rivers,  and  trackless  plains,  that  is,  to 
my  mind,  wonderfully  striking  and  sublime.  He  is  formed 
for  the  wilderness,  as  the  Arab  is  for  the  desert.  His  nature 
is  stern,  simple,  and  enduring  ;  fitted  to  grapple  with  diffi- 
culties, and  to  support  privations.  There  seems  but  little 
soil  in  his  heart  for  the  growth  of  the  kindly  virtues  ;  and  yet, 
if  we  would  but  take  the  trouble  to  penetrate  through  that 
proud  stoicism  and  habitual  taciturnity,  which  look  up  his 
character  from  casual  observation,  v/e  should  find  him  linked 
to  his  fellow  man  of  civilized  life  by  more  of  those  sympathies 
and  affections  than  are  usually  ascribed  to  him. 

It  has  been  the  lot  of  the  unfortunate  aborigines  of 
America,  in  the  early  periods  of  colonization,  to  be  doubly 
wronged  by  the  white  men.  They  have  been  dispossessed  of 
their  hereditary  possessions,  by  mercenary  and  frequently 
wanton  warfare  ;  and  their  characters  have  been  traduced  by 
bigoted  and  interested  writers.  The  colonist  has  often  treated 
them  like  beasts  of  the  forest ;  and  the  author  has  endeav- 
ored to  justify  him  in  his  outrages.  The  former  found  it 
•easier  to  exterminate  than  to  civilize — the  latter  to  vilify 
than  to  discriminate.    The  appellations  of  savage  and  pagan 


276  WORKS  OF  WASHING  TON  IR  VING, 

were  deemed  sufficient  to  sanction  the  hostilities  of  both ;  and 
thus  the  poor  wanderers  of  the  forest  were  persecuted  and 
defamed,  not  because  they  were  guilty,  but  because  they 
were  ignorant. 

The  rights  of  the  savage  have  seldom  been  properly 
appreciated  or  respected  by  the  white  man.  In  peace  he 
has  too  often  been  the  dupe  of  artful  traffic  ;  in  war,  he  has 
been  regarded  as  a  ferocious  animal,  whose  life  or  death  was 
a  question  of  mere  precaution  and  convenience.  Man  is 
cruelly  wasteful  of  life  when  his  own  safety  is  endangered^ 
and  he  is  sheltered  by  impunity  ;  and  little  mercy  is  to  be 
expected  from  him  when  he  feels  the  sting  of  the  reptile,  and 
is  conscious  of  the  power  to  destroy. 

The  same  prejudices  which  were  indulged  thus  early,  exist 
wn  common  circulation  at  the  present  day.  Certain  learned 
societies  have,  it  is  true,  with  laudable  diligence,  endeavored 
to  investigate  and  record  the  real  characters  and  manners  of 
the  Indian  tribes;  the  American  government,  too,  has  wisely 
and  humanely  exerted  itself  to  inculcate  a  friendly  and  for- 
bearing spirit  towards  them,  and  to  protect  them  from  fraud 
and  injustice,*  The  current  opinion  of  the  Indian  character, 
however,  is  too  apt  to  be  formed  from  the  miserable  hordes 
which  infest  the  frontiers,  and  hang  on  to  the  skirts  of  the  settle- 
ments. These  are  too  commonly  composed  of  degenerate 
beings,  corrupted  and  enfeebled  by  the  vices  of  society,  with- 
out being  benefited  by  its  civilization.  That  proud  indepea 
dence,  which  formed  the  main  pillar  of  savage  virtue,  has 
been  shaken  duwn,  and  the  whole  moral  fabric  lies  in  ruins. 
Their  spirits  ai#^  humiliated  and  debased  by  a  sense  of  in- 

*The  American  g«-«;ernment  has  been  indefatigable  in  it  sexertions  ta 
meliorate  the  situation  of  the  Indians,  and  to  introduce  among  them  the 
arts  of  civilization,  and  civil  and  religious  knowledge.  To  protect  them 
from  the  frauds  of  tne  white  traders,  no  purchase  of  land  from  them  by 
individuals  is  permitted;  nor  is  any  person  allowed  to  receive  lands  from 
them  as  a  present,  witnout  the  express  sanction  of  government.  These 
precautions  are  strictly  enforced- 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  277 

feriority,  and  their  native  courage  cowed  and  daunted  by  the 
superior  knovyledge  and  power  of  their  enUghtened  neighbors. 
Society  has  advanced  upon  them  hke  one  of  those  withering 
airs  that  will  sometimes  breathe  desolation  over  a  wdiole  region 
of  fertility.  It  has  enervated  their  strength,  multiplied  their 
•diseases,  and  superinduced  upon  their  original  barbarity  the 
low  vices  of  artificial  life.  It  has  given  them  a  thousand 
superfluous  wants,  whilst  it  has  diminished  thfeir  means  of 
mere  existence.  It  has  driven  before  it  the  animals  of  the 
chase,  who  fly  from  the  sound  of  the  axe  and  the  smoke  of  the 
settlement,  and  seek  refuge  in  the  depths  of  remoter  forests 
and  yet  untrodden  wilds.  Thus  do  we  too  often  find  the 
Indians  on  our  frontiers  to  be  mere  wrecks  and  remnants  of 
once  powerful  tribes,  who  have  lingered  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
settlements,  and  sunk  into  precarious  and  vagabond  existence. 
Poverty,  repining  and  hopeless  poverty,  a  canker  of  the  mind 
unknown  in  savage  life,  corrodes  their  spirits  and  blights  every 
free  and  noble  quality  of  their  natures.  They  become  drunken, 
indolent,  feeble,  thievish,  and  pusillanimous.  They  loiter  like 
vagrants  about  the  settlements  among  spacious  dwellings, 
replete  with  elaborate  comforts,  which  only  render  them 
sensible  of  the  comparative  wretchedness  of  their  own  condi- 
tion. Luxury  spreads  its  ample  board  before  their  eyes ;  but 
they  are  excluded  from  the  banquet.  Plenty  revels  over  the 
fields  ;  but  they  are  starving  in  the  midst  of  its  abundance : 
the  whole  wilderness  has  blossomed  into  a  garden  ;  but  they 
feel  as  reptiles  that  infest  it. 

How  different  was  their  state,  while  yet  the  undisputed 
lords  of  the  soil !  Their  want^  were  few,  and  the  means  of 
gratification  within  their  reach.  They  saw  everyone  round 
then  sharing  the  same  lot,  enduring  the  same  hardships,  feed- 
ing on  the  same  aliments,  arrayed  in  the  same  rude  garments. 
No  roof  then  rose,  but  was  open  to  the  homeless  stranger  ;  no 
smoke  curled  among  the  trees,  but  he  was  welcome  to  sit 
down  by  its  fire  and  join  the  hunter  in  his  repast.  "  For,'' 
says  an  old  historian  of  New-England,  *^  their  life  is  so  void 


278  fVORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  /J< f^INU, 

of  care,  and  they  are  so  loving  also,  that  they  make  uw.  of 
those  things  they  enjoy  as  common  goods,  and  are  therein 
compassionate,  that  rather  than  one  should  starve  through 
want,  they  would  starve  all ;  thus  do  they  pass  their  time 
merrily,  not  regarding  our  pomp,  but  are  better  content  with 
their  own,  which  some  men  esteem  so  meanly  of."  Such 
were  the  Indians,  whilst  in  the  pride  and  energy  of  their 
primitive  natures ;  they  resemble  those  wild  plants  which 
thrive  best  in  the  shades  of  the  forest,  but  shrink  from  the 
hand  of  cultivation,  and  perish  beneath  the  influence  of  the 
sun. 

In  discussing  the  savage  character,  writers  have  been  too^ 
prone  to  indulge  in  vulgar  prejudice  and  passionate  exaggera- 
tion, instead  of  the  candid  temper  of  true  philosophy.  They 
have  not  sufficiently  considered  the  peculiar  circumstanced  in« 
which  the  Indians  have  been  placed,  and  the  peculiar  princi- 
ples under  which  they  have  been  educated.  No  being  acts 
more  rigidly  from  rule  than  the  Indian.  His  whole  conduct 
is  regulated  according  to  some  general  maxins  early  implanted 
in  his  mind.  The  moral  laws  that  govern  him  are,  to  be  sure, 
but  few  ;  but  then  he  conforms  to  them  all  ; — the  white  man 
abounds  in  laws  of  religion,  morals,  and  manners,  but  how 
many  does  he  violate  ! 

A  frequent  ground  of  accusation  against  the  Indians  is 
their  disregard  of  treaties,  and  the  treachery  and  wantonness 
with  which,  in  time  of  apparent  peace,  they  will  suddenly  fly 
to  hostilities.  The  intercourse  of  the  white  men  with  the 
Indians,  however,  is  too  apt  to  be  cold,  distrustful,  oppressive^ 
and  insulting.  They  seldom  treat  them  with  that  confidence 
and  frankness  which  are  indispensable  to  real  friendship  ;  nor 
is  sufficient  caution  observed  not  to  offend  against  those  feel- 
ings of  pride  or  superstition,  which  often  prompt  the  Indian 
to  hostility  quicker  than  mere  considerations  of  interest.  The 
solitary  savage  feels  silently,  but  acutely.  His  sensibilities 
are  not  diffused  over  so  wide  a  surface  as  those  of  the  white 
man ;  but  they  run  in  steadier  and  deeper  channels.  His  pride^ 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT,  279 

his  affections,  his  superstitions,  are  all  directed  towards  fewer 
objects  ;  but  the  wounds  inflicted  on  them  are  proportion- 
ably  severe,  and  furnish  motives  of  hostility  which  we  cannot 
sufficiently  appreciate.  Where  a  community  is  also  limited 
in  number,  and  forms  one  great  patriarchal  family,  as  in  an 
Indian  tribe,  the  injury  of  an  individual  is  the  injury  of  the 
whole  j  and  the  sentiment  of  vengeance  is  almost  instanta- 
neously  diffused.  One  council-fire  is  sufficient  for  the  discus- 
sion and  arrangement  of  a  plan  of  hostilities.  Here  all  the 
fighting  men  and  sages  assemble.  Eloquence  and  supersti- 
tion combine  to  inflame  the  minds  of  the  warriors.  The 
orator  awakens  their  martial  ardor,  and  they  are  wrought 
up  to  a  kind  of  religious  desperation,  by  the  visions  of  the 
prophet  and  the  dreamer. 

An  instance  of  one  of  those  sudden  exasperations,  arising 
from  a  motive  peculiar  to  the  Indian  character,  is  extant  in 
an  old  record  of  the  early  settlement  of  Massachusetts.  The 
planters  of  Plymouth  had  defaced  the  monuments  of  the  dead 
at  Passonagessit,  and  had  plundered  the  grave  of  the  Sachem's 
mother  of  some  skins  with  which  it  had  been  decorated.  The 
Indians  are  remarkable  for  the  reverence  which  they  enter- 
tain for  the  sepulchres  of  their  kindred.  Tribes  that  have 
passed  generations  exiled  from  the  abodes  of  their  ancestors^ 
w^hen  by  chance  they  have  been  travelling  in  the  vicinity, 
have  been  known  to  turn  aside  from  the  highway,  and,  guided 
by  wonderfully  accurate  tradition,  have  crossed  the  country 
for  miles  to  some  tumulus,  buried  perhaps  in  woods,  where  the 
bones  of  their  tribe  were  anciently  deposited  ;  and  there 
have  passed  hours  in  silent  meditation.  Influenced  by  this 
sublime  and  holy  feeling,  the  Sachem,  whose  mother's  tomb 
had  been  violated,  gathered  his  men  together,  and  addressed 
them  in  the  following  beautifully  simple  and  pathetic  ha- 
rangue ;  a  curious  specimen  of  Indian  eloquence,  and  an  af- 
ecting  instance  of  filial  piety  in  a  savage. 

"  When  last  the  glorious  light  of  all  the  sky  was  under- 
neath this  globe,  and  birds  grew  silent,  I  began  to  settle^ 


28o  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON-  IRVING. 


^.s  my  custom  is,  to  take  repose.  Before  mine  eyes  were  fast 
-closed,  methought  I  saw  a  vision,  at  whicli  »T^y  spirit  was  mucli 
troubled  ;  and  trembling  at  that  dolerul  sight,  a  spirit  cried 
aloud,  '  Behold,  my  son,  whom  I  have  cherished,  see  the 
breasts  that  gave  thee  suck,  the  hands  that  lapped  thee  warm, 
and  fed  thee  oft.  Canst  thou  forget  to  take  revenge  of  thosey 
wild  people,  who  have  defaced  my  monument  in  a  despiteful 
manner,  disdaining  our  antiquities  and  honorable  customs  ? 
See,  now,  the  Sachem's  grave  lies  like  the  common  people, 
defaced  by  an  ignoble  race.  Thy  mother  doth  complain,  and 
implores  thy  aid  against  this  thievish  people,  who  have  newly 
intruded  on  our  land.  If  this  be  suffered,  I  shall  not  rest 
quiet  in  my  everlasting  habitation.'  This  said,  the  spirit  van- 
ished, and  I,  all  in  a  sweat,  not  able  scarce  to  speak,  began 
to  get  some  strength,  and  recollected  my  spirits  that  were  fled, 
and  determined  to  demand  your  counsel  and  assistance." 

I  have  adduced  this  anecdote  at  some  length,  as  it  tends 
to  show  how  these  sudden  acts  of  hostility,  which  have  been 
attributed  to  caprice  and  perfidy,  may  often  arise  from  deep 
and  generous  motives,  which  our  inattention  to  Indian  char- 
acter and  customs  prevent  our  properly  appreciating. 

Another  ground  of  violent  outcry  against  the  Indians,  is 
their  barbarity  to  the  vanquished.  This  had  its  origin  partly 
in  policy  and  partly  in  superstition.  The  tribes,  though 
sometimes  called  nations,  were  never  so  formidable  in  their 
number,  but  that  the  loss  of  several  warriors  was  sensibly 
felt ;  this  was  particularly  the  case  when  they  had  been  fre- 
quently engaged  in  warfare ;  and  many  an  instance  occurs  ir^ 
Indian  history,  where  a  tribe,  that  had  long  been  formidable 
to  its  neighbors,  has  been  broken  up  and  driven  away,  by  the 
capture  and  massacre  of  its  principal  fighting  men.  There 
Avas  a  strong  temptation,  therefore,  to  the  victor  to  be  mer- 
ciless ;  not  so  much  to  gratify  any  cruel  revenge,  as  to  pro- 
vide for  future  security.  The  Indians  had  also  the  supersti- 
tious belief,  frequent  among  barbarous  nations,  and  prevalent 
also  among  the  ancients,  that  the  manes  of  their  friends  who 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.    28 f 


had  fallen  in  battle,  were  soothed  by  the  blood  of  the  captives. 
The  prisoners,  however,  who  are  not  thus  sacrificed,  are  adopt- 
ed into  their  families  in  the  place  of  the  slain,  and  are  treated 
with  the  confidence  and  affection  of  relatives  and  friends ; 
nay,  so  hospitable  and  tender  is  their  entertainment,  that 
when  the  alternative  is  offered  them,  they  will  often  prefer  to 
remain  with  their  adopted  brethren,  rather  than  return  to  the 
home  and  the  friends  of  their  youth. 

The  cruelty  of  the  Indians  towards  their  prisoners  has 
been  heightened  since  the  colonization  of  the  whites.  What 
was  formerly  a  compliance  with  policy  and  superstition,  has 
been  exasperated  into  a  gratification  of  vengeance.  They 
cannot  but  be  sensible  that  the  white  men  are  the  usurpers  of 
their  ancient  dominion,  the  cause  of  their  degradation,  and 
the  gradual  destroyers  of  their  race.  They  go  forth  to  battle, 
smarting  with  injuries  and  indignities  which  they  have  indi- 
vidually suffered,  and  they  are  driven  to  madness  and  despair 
by  the  wide-spreading  desolation,  and  the  overwhelming  ruin 
of  European  warfare.  The  whites  have  too  frequently  set 
them  an  example  of  violence,  by  burning  their  villages  and 
laying  waste  their  slender  means  of  subsistence  ;  and  yet 
they  wonder  that  savages  do  not  show  moderation  and  mag- 
nanimity towards  those  who  have  left  them  nothing  but  mere 
existence  and  wretchedness. 

We  stigmatize  the  Indians,  also,  as  cowardly  and  treacher- 
ous,  because  they  use  stratagem  in  warfare,  in  preference  ta 
open  force  ;  but  in  this  they  are  fully  justified  by  their  rude 
code  of  honor.  They  are  early  taught  that  stratagem  is  praise- 
worthy ;  the  bravest  warrior  thinks  it  no  disgrace  to  lurk  in 
silence,  and  take  every  advantage  of  his  foe  ;  he  triumphs  in 
the  superior  craft  and  sagacity  by  which  he  has  been  enabled 
to  surprise  and  destroy  an  enemy.  Indeed,  man  is  naturally 
more  prone  to  subtilty  than  open  valor,  owing  to  his  physical 
weakness  in  comparison  with  other  animals.  They  are  en- 
dowed with  natural  weapons  of  defence :  with  horns,  with 
tusks,  with  hoofs,  and  talons ;  but  man  has  to  depend  on  his 


1282 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 


superior  sagacity.  In  all  his  encounters  with  these,  his 
proper  enemies,  he  resorts  to  stratagem  :  and  when  he 
perversely  turns  his  hostility  against  his  fellow  man,  he  at 
first  continues  the  same  subtle  mode  of  warfare. 

The  natural  principle  of  war  is  to  do  the  most  harm  to 
our  enemy,  with  the  least  harm  to  ourselves :  and  this  ot 
course  is  to  be  effected  by  stratagem.  That  chivalrous  cour- 
age which  induces  us  to  despise  the  suggestions  of  prudence 
and  to  rush  in  the  face  of  certain  danger,  is  the  offspring  of 
society,  and  produced  by  education.  It  is  honorable,  because 
it  is  in  fact  the  triumph  of  lofty  sentiment  over  an  instinct- 
ive repugnance  to  pain,  and  over  those  yearnings  after  per- 
sonal ease  and  security,  which  society  has  condemned  as 
ignoble.  It  is  kept  alive  b}^  pride  and  the  fear  of  shame  ;  and 
thus  the  dread  of  real  evil  is  overcome  by  the  superior  dread 
of  an  evil  which  exists  but  in  the  imagination.  It  has  been 
cherished  and  stimulated  also  by  various  means.  It  has  been 
the  theme  of  spirit-stirring  song  and  chivalrous  story.  The  poet 
and  minstrel  have  delighted  to  shed  round  it  the  splendors 
of  fiction  ;  and  even  the  historian  has  forgotten  the  sober 
gravity  of  narration,  and  broken  forth  into  enthusiasm  and 
rhapsody  in  its  praise.  Triumphs  and  gorgeous  pageants 
have  been  its  reward  ;  monuments,  on  which  art  has  ex- 
hausted its  skill,  and  opulence  iis  treasures,  have  been 
-erected  to  perpetuate  a  nation's  gratitude  and  admiration. 
Thus  artificially  excited  courage  has  risen  to  an  extraordinary 
and  factitious  degree  of  heroism  ;  and,  arrayed  in  all  the 
glorious  pomp  and  circumstance  of  war,"  this  turbulent 
quality  has  even  been  able  to  eclipse  many  of  those  quiet, 
but  invaluable  virtues,  which  silently  ennoble  the  human 
character,  and  swell  the  tide  of  human  happiness. 

But  if  courage  intrinsically  consists  in  the  defiance  of  dan- 
ger and  pain,  the  life  of  the  Indian  is  a  continual  exhibition 
of  it.  He  lives  in  a  state  of  perpetual  hostility  and  risk. 
Peril  and  adventure  are  congenial  to  his  nature  ;  or  rather 
;seem  necessary  to  arouse  his  faculties  and  to  give  an  interest 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  285, 

to  his  existence.    Surrounded  by  hostile  tribes,  whose  mode 
of  warfare  is  by  ambush  and  surprisal,  he  is  always  prepared 
for  fight,  and  lives  with  his  weapons  in  his  hands.    As  the 
ship  careers  in  fearful  singleness  through  the  solitudes  of 
ocean, — as  the  bird  mingles  among  clouds  and  storms,  and 
wings  its  way,  a  mere  speck,  across  the  pathless  fields  of  air 
so  the  Indian  holds  his  course,  silent,  solitary,  but  undaunted, 
through  the  boundless  bosom  of  the  wilderness.    His  expe- 
ditions may  vie  in  distance  and  danger  with  the  pilgrimage  of 
the  devoted,  or  the  crusade  of  the  knight-errant.  He  traverses 
vast  forests,  exposed  to  the  hazards  of  lonely  sickness,  of 
lurking  enemies,  and  pining  famine.   Stormy  lakes,  those  great 
inland  seas,  are  no  obstacles  to  his  wanderings  ;  in  his  light 
canoe  of  bark,  he  sports  like  a  feather  on  their  waves,  and 
darts  with  the  swiftness  of  an  arrow  down  the  roaring  rapids 
of  the  rivers.    His  very  subsistence  is  snatched  from  the 
midst  of  toil  and  peril.    He  gains  his  food  by  the  hardships 
and  dangers  of  the  chase  ;  he  v/raps  himself  in  the  spoils  of 
the  bear,  the  panther,  and  the  buffalo;  and  sleeps  among 
the  thunders  of  the  cataract. 

No  hero  of  ancient  or  modern  days  can  surpass  the  Indian 
in  his  lofty  oontempt  of  death,  and  the  fortitude  with  which, 
he  sustains  its  crudest  affliction.  Indeed,  we  here  behold 
him  rising  superior  to  the  white  man,  in  consequence  of  his 
peculiar  education.  The  latter  rushes  to  glorious  death  at 
the  cannon's  mouth  ;  the  former  calmly  contemplates  its  ap- 
proach, and  triumphantly  endures  it,  amidst  the  varied  tor- 
ments of  surrounding  foes,  and  the  protracted  agonies  of  fire. 
He  even  takes  a  pride  in  taunting  his  persecutors,  and  provok- 
mg  their  ingenuity  of  torture  ;  and  as  the  devouring  flames  prey 
on  his  very  vitals,  and  the  flesh  shrinks  from  the  sinews, 
he  raises  his  song  of  triumph,  breathing  the  defiance  of  an 
unconquered  heart,  and  invoking  the  spirits  of  his  fathers  to 
witness  that  he  dies  without  a  groan. 

Notwithstanding  the  obloquy  with  which  the  early  histo- 
rians have  overshadowed  the  characters  of  the  unfortunate 


284 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


natives,  some  bright  gleams  occasionally  break  through,  which 
throw  a  degree  of  melancholy  lustre  on  their  memories. 
Facts  are  occasionally  to  be  met  with  in  the  rude  annals  of 
the  eastern  provinces,  which,  though  recorded  with  the  col- 
oring of  prejudice  and  bigotry,  yet  speak  for  themselves  ;  and 
will  be  dwelt  on  with  applause  and  sympathy,  when  prejudice 
shall  have  passed  away. 

^n  one  of  the  homely  narratives  of  the  Indian  wars  in  New- 
Engiand,  there  is  a  touching  account  of  the  desolation  carried 
iixto  the  tribe  of  the  Pequod  Indians.  Humanity  shrinks 
from  the  cold-blooded  detail  of  indiscriminate  butchery.  In 
one  place  we  read  of  the  surprisal  of  an  Indian  fort  in  the 
eight,  when  the  wigwams  were  wrapped  in  flames,  and  the 
miserable  inhabitants  shot  down  and  slain  in  attempting  to 
escape,  ^'  all  being  despatched  and  ended  in  the  course  of  an 
'^^ur."  After  a  series  of  similar  transactions,"  our  soldiers,'* 
as  the  historian  piously  observes,  being  resolved  by  God's 
assistance  to  make  a  final  destruction  of  them,'^  the  unhappy 
savages  being  hunted  from  their  homes  and  fortresses,  and 
pursued  with  fire  and  sword,  a  scanty  but  gallant  band,  the 
sad  remnant  of  the  Pequod  warriors,  with  their  wives  and 
children,  took  refuge  in  a  swamp. 

Burning  with  indignation,  and  rendered  sullen  by  despair  ; 
with  hearts  bursting  with  grief  at  the  destruction  of  their  tribe, 
and  spirits  galled  and  sore  at  the  fancied  ignominy  of  their 
defeat,  they  refused  to  ask  their  lives  at  the  hands  of  an  insult- 
^  ing  foe,  and  preferred  death  to  submission. 

As  the  night  drew  on,  they  were  surrounded  in  theii  dis- 
mal retreat,  so  as  to  render  escape  impracticable.  Thus  situ- 
ated, their  enemy  "  plied  them  with  shot  all  the  time,  by  which 
means  many  were  killed  and  buried  in  the  mire.^*  In  the 
-darkness  and  fog  that  preceded  the  dawn  of  day,  some  few 
broke  through  the  besiegers  and  escaped  into  the  woods  r 
the  rest  were  left  to  the  conquerors,  of  which  many  were 
killed  in  the  swamp,  like  sullen  dogs  who  would  rather,  ia 
iieir  self-willedness  and  madness,  sit  still  and  be  shot  through^ 


:SK  ETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  OR  A  VON,  GENT  285, 

or  cut  to  pieces,"  than  implore  for  mercy.  When  the  day 
broke  upon  this  handful  of  forlorn  but  dauntless  spirits,  the 
soldiers,  we  are  told,  entering  the  swamp,  "  saw  several 
heaps  of  them  sitting  close  together,  upon  whom  they  dis- 
charged their  pieces,  laden  with  ten  or  twelve  pistol-bullets 
at  a  time  ;  putting  the  muzzles  of  the  pieces  under  the  boughs^ 
within  a  few  yards  of  them  ;  so  as,  besides  those  that  were 
found  dead,  many  more  were  killed  and  sunk  into  the  mire, 
and  never  were  minded  more  by  friend  or  foe." 

Can  anyone  read  this  plain  unvarnished  tale,  without  ad- 
miring the  stern  resolution,  the  unbending  pride,  the  loftiness, 
of  spirit,  that  seemed  to  nerve  the  hearts  of  these  self-taught 
heroes,  and  to  raise  them  above  the  instinctive  feelings  of 
human  nature  1  When  the  Gauls  laid  waste  the  city  of  Rome, 
they  found  the  senators  clothed  in  their  robes  and  seated  with 
stern  tranquillity  in  their  curule  chairs  ;  in  this  manner  they 
suffered  death  without  resistance  or  even  supplication.  Such 
conduct  was,  in  them,  applauded  as  noble  and  magnanimous 
— in  the  hapless  Indians,  . it  was  reviled  as  obstinate  and  sul- 
len. How  truly  are  we  the  dupes  of  show  and  circumstance  I 
How  different  is  virtue  clothed  in  purple  and  enthroned  in 
state,  from  virtue  naked  and  destitute,  and  perishing  obscurely^ 
In  a  wilderness  ! 

But  I  forbear  to  dwell  on  these  gloomy  pictures.  The 
eastern  tribes  have  long  since  disappeared  ;  the  foresis  that 
sheltered  them  have  been  laid  low,  and  scarce  any  traces  re- 
main of  them  in  the  thickly-settled  states  of  New-England, 
excepting  here  and  there  the  Indian  name  of  a  village  or  a. 
stream.  And  such  must  sooner  or  later  be  the  fate  of  those 
other  tribes  which  skirt  the  frontiers,  and  have  occasionally 
been  inveigled  from  their  forests  to  mingle  in  the  wars  of 
white  men.  In  a  little  while,  and  they  will  go  the  way  that 
their  brethren  have  gone  before.  The  few  hordes  which  still 
linger  about  the  shores  of  Huron  and  Superior,  and  the  tribu- 
tary streams  of  the  Mississippi,  will  share  the  fate  of  those- 
tribes  that  once  spread  over  Massachusetts  and  Corxnecticut* 


^86 


WORKS  OF  WASmNGTON  IRVING, 


and  lorded  it  along  the  proud  banks  of  the  Hudson ;  of  that 
-gigantic  race  said  to  have  existed  on  the  borders  of  the  Sus- 
quehanna ;  and  of  those  various  nations  that  flourished  about 
the  Potowmac  and  the  Rappahanoc,  and  that  peopled  the 
forests  of  the  vast  valley  of  Shenandoah.  They  will  vanish  like 
a  vapor  from  the  face  of  the  earth  ;  their  very  history  will 
be  lost  in  forgetfulness  ;  ^nd  the  places  that  now  know  them 
will  know  them  no  more  forever."  Or  if,  perchance,  some 
dubious  memorial  of  them  should  survive,  it  may  be  in  the 
romantic  dreams  of  the  poet,  to  people  in  imagination  his 
glades  and  grov^es,  like  the  fauns  and  satyrs  and  sylvan 
deities  of  antiquity.  But  should  he  venture  upon  the  dark 
story  of  their  wrongs  and  wretchedness  ;  should  he  tell  how 
they  were  invaded,  corrupted,  despoiled  ;  driven  from  their 
native  abodes  and  the  sepulchres  of  their  fathers  ;  hunted  like 
wild  beasts  about  the  earth  ;  and  sent  down  with  violence  and 
butchery  to  the  grave — posterity  will  either  turn  with  horror 
and  incredulity  from  the  tale,  or  blush  with  indignation  at 
the  inhumanity  of  their  forefathers. — We  are  driven  back," 
said  an  old  warrior,  "  until  we  can  retreat  no  farther — out 
hatchets  are  broken,  our  bows  are  snapped,  our  fires  are  nearly 
extinguished — a  little  longer  and  the  white  man  will  cease  to 
persecute  us — for  we  shall  cease  to  exist," 


^1 


^ETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFRE  V  CRA  YON,  CENT.  • 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET. 

AN  INDIAN  MEMOIR. 

As  monumental  bronze  unchanged  his  look  : 
A  soul,  that  pity  touch'd,  but  never  shook ; 
Trained,  from  his  tree-rock'd  cradte  to  his  bier. 
The  fierce  extremes  of  good  and  ill  to  brook 
Impassive — fearing  but  the  shame  of  fear — 
A  stoic  of  the  woods— a  man  without  a  tear. 

Campbell. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  those  early  writers  who  treated 
of  the  discovery  and  settlement  of  America,  have  not  given  us 
more  particular  and  candid  accounts  of  the  remarkable 
characters  that  flourished  in  savage  life.  The  scanty  anec- 
dotes which  have  reached  us  are  full  of  peculiarity  and  in- 
terest ;  they  furnish  us  with  nearer  glimpses  of  human  nature, 
and  show  what  man  is  in  a  comparatively  primitive  state,  and 
what  he  owes  to  civilization.  There  is  something  of  the  charm 
of  discovery  in  lighting  upon  these  wild  and  unexplored  tracts 
of  human  nature ;  in  witnessing,  as  it  were,  the  native  growth 
of  moral  sentiment ;  and  perceiving  those  generous  and  ro- 
mantic qualities  w^hich  have  been  artificially  cultivated  by 
society,  vegetating  in  spontaneous  hardihood  and  rude  mag- 
nificence. 

In  civilized  life,  where  the  happiness,  and  indeed  almost 
the  existence,  of  man  depends  so  much  upon  the  opinion  of 
his  fellow  men,  he  is  constantly  acting  a  studied  part.  The 
bold  and  peculiar  traits  of  native  character  are  refined  away, 
or  softened  down  by  the  levelling  influence  of  what  is  termed 
^ood  breeding  ;  and  he  practises  so  many  petty  deceptions. 


288 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVIJSf^^ 


and  affects  so  many  generous  sentiments,  for  the  purposes  of 
popularity,  that  it  is  difficult  to  distinguish  his  real,  from  his 
artificial  character.  The  Indian,  on  the  contrary,  free  from 
the  restraints  and  refinements  of  polished  life,  and,  in  a  great 
degree,  a  solitary  and  independent  being,  obeys  the  impulses 
of  his  inclination  or  the  dictates  of  his  judgment ;  and  thus 
the  attributes  of  his  nature,  being  freely  indulged,  grow  singly 
great  and  striking  Society  is  like  a  lawn,  wdiere  every  rough- 
ness is  smoothed,  every  bramble  eradicated,  and  where  the 
eye  is  delighted  by  the  sm.iling  verdure  of  a  velvet  surface  ° 
he,  however,  who  would  study  Nature  in  its  wildness  and 
variety,  must  plunge  into  the  forest,  must  explore  the  gleUj, 
must  stem  the  torrent,  and  dare  the  precipice. 

These  reflections  arose  on  casually  looking  through  a  vol- 
ume of  early  colonial  history  wherein  are  recorded,  with  great 
bitterness,  the  outrages  of  the  Indians,  and  their  wars  with 
the  settlers  of  Nev/-England.  It  is  painful  to  perceive,  even 
from  these  partial  narratives,  how  the  footsteps  of  civilization 
may  be  traced  in  the  blood  of  the  aborigines  ;  how  easily  the 
colonists  were  moved  to  hostility  by  the  lust  of  conquest  ; 
how  merciless  and  exterminating  was  their  warfare.  The  im- 
agination shrinks  at  the  idea,  how  many  intellectual  beings 
were  hunted  from  the  earth — how  many  brave  and  noble 
hearts,  of  Nature's  sterling  coinage,  were  broken  down  and. 
trampled  in  the  dust ! 

Such  was  the  fate  of  Philip  of  Pokanoket,  an  Indian 
warrior,  whose  name  was  once  a  terror  throughout  Massachu- 
setts and  Connecticut.  He  was  the  most  distinguished  of  a. 
number  of  cotemporary  Sachems  who  reigned  over  the  Pe- 
quods  the  Narrhagansets,  the  Wampanoags,  and  the  other 
eastern  tribes,  at  the  time  of  the  first  settlement  of  New-Eng- 
land :  a  band  of  native  untaught  heroes  ;  who  made  the  most 
generous  struggle  of  which  human  nature  is  capable  ;  fighting 
to  the  last  gasp  in  the  cause  of  their  country,  without  a  hope 
of  victory  or  a  thought  of  renown.  Worthy  of  an  age  of  poetry, 
and  fit  subjects  for  local  story  and  romantic  fiction,  they  have^ 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  289 

left  scarcely  any  authentic  traces  on  the  page  of  history,  but 
stalk  like  gigantic  shadows,  in  the  dim  twilight  of  tradition.* 
When  the  pilgrims,  as  the  Plymouth  settlers  are  called  by 
their  descendants,  first  took  refuge  on  the  shores  of  :he  New 
World,  from  the  religious  persecutions  of  the  Old,  their  situation 
was  to  the  last  degree  gloomy  and  disheartening.  Few  in 
number,  and  that  number  rapidly  perishing  away  through 
sickness  and  hardships  ;  surrounded  by  a  howling  wilderness 
and  savage  tribes ;  exposed  to  the  rigors  of  an  almost  arctic 
winter,  and  the  vicissitudes  of  an  ever-shifting  climate  ;  their 
minds  were  filled  with  doleful  forebodings,  and  nothing  pre- 
served them  from  sinking  into  despondency  but  the  strong 
excitement  of  religious  enthusiasm.  In  this  forlorn  situation 
they  were  visited  by  Massasoit,  chief  Sagamore  of  the  Wam- 
panoags,  a  powerful  chief,  who  reigned  over  a  great  extent  of 
country.  Instead  of  taking  advantage  of  the  scanty  number 
of  the  strangers,  and  expelling  them  from  his  territories  into 
which  they  had  intruded,  he  seemed  at  once  to  conceive  for 
them  a  generous  friendship,  and  extended  towards  them  the 
rites  of  primitive  hospitality.  He  came  early  in  the  spring  to 
their  settlement  of  New-Plymouth,  attended  by  a  mere  hand- 
ful of  followers ;  entered  into  a  solemn  league  of  peace  and 
amity  ;  sold  them  a  portion  of  the  soil,  and  promised  to  secure 
for  them  the  good-will  of  his  savage  allies.  Whatever  may  be 
said  of  Indian  perfidy,  it  is  certain  that  the  integrity  and  good 
faith  of  Massasoit  have  never  been  impeached.  He  continued 
a  firm  and  magnanimous  friend  of  the  white  men  ;  suffering 
them  to  extend  their  possessions,  and  to  strengthen  themselves 
in  the  land  ;  and  betraying  no  jealousy  of  their  increasing 
power  and  prosperity.  Shortly  before  his  death,  he  came  once 
more  to  New-Plymouth,  with  his  son  Alexander,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  renewing  the  covenant  of  peace,  and  securing  it  to 
his  posterity. 

*  While  correctingthe  proof-sheets  of  this  article,  the  author  is  informed^ 
that  a  celebrated  English  poet  has  nearly  finished  a  heroic  poem  on  the 
•^tory  of  Philip  of  Pokanoket. 


290 


IVOR  ICS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


At  this  conference,  he  endeavored  to  protect  the  religion 
of  his  forefathers  from  the  encroaching  zeal  of  the  mission- 
aries ;  and  stipulated  that  no  farther  attempt  should  be  made 
to  draw  off  his  people  from  their  ancient  faith  ;  but,  finding 
the  English  obstinately  opposed  to  any  such  condition,  he 
mildly  relinquished  the  demand.  Almost  the  last  act  of  his 
life  was  to  bring  his  two  sons,  Alexander  and  Philip  (as  they 
had  been  named  by  the  English)  to  the  residence  of  a  princi- 
pal settler,  recomm.ending  mutual  kindness  and  confidence  ; 
and  entreating  that  the  same  love  and  amity  which  had  existed 
between  the  white  men  and  himself,  might  be  continued 
afterwards  with  his  children.  The  good  old  Sachem  died  in 
peace,  and  was  happily  gathered  to  his  fathers  before  sorrow 
came  upon  his  tribe  ;  his  children  remained  behind  to  experi- 
ence the  ingratitude  of  white  men. 

His  eldest  son,  Alexander,  succeeded  him.  He  was  of  a 
quick  and  impetuous  temper,  and  proudly  tenacious  of  his 
hereditary  rights  and  dignity.  The  intrusive  policy  and  dic- 
tatorial conduct  of  the  strangers,  excited  his  indignation  ;  and 
he  beheld  with  uneasiness  their  exterminating  wars  with  the 
neighboring  tribes.  He  was  doomed  soon  to  incur  their  hos- 
tility, being  accused  of  plotting  with  the  Narrhagansets  to  rise 
against  the  English  and  drive  them  from  the  land.  It  is  im- 
possible to  say  whether  this  accusation  was  warranted  by  facts, 
or  was  grounded  on  mere  suspicions.  It  is  evident,  ho^'ever, 
by  the  violent  and  overbearing  measures  of  the  settlers,  that 
they  had  by  this  time  begun  to  feel  conscious  of  the  rapid  in- 
crease of  their  power,  and  to  grow  harsh  and  inconsiderate  in 
their  treatment  of  the  natives.  They  despatched  an  armed 
force  to  seize  upon  Alexander,  and  to  bring  him  before  their 
court.  He  was  traced  to  his  woodland  haunts,  and  surprised  at 
a  hunting  house,  where  he  was  reposing  with  a  band  of  his  fol- 
lowers, unarmed,  after  the  toils  of  the  chase.  The  suddenness- 
of  his  arrest,  and  the  outrage  offered  to  his  sovereign  dignity, 
so  preyed  upon  the  irascible  feelings  of  this  proud  savage,  as 
to  throw  him  into  a  raging  fever  ;  he  was  permitted  to  return 


SK'ETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  291 

liome  on  condition  of  sending  his  son  as  a  pledge  for  his  re- 
appearance ;  but  the  blow  he  had  received  was  fatal,  and  be- 
fore he  reached  his  home  he  fell  a  victim  to  the  agonies  of  a 
wounded  spirit. 

The  successor  of  Alexander  was  Metamocet,  or  King 
Philip,  as  he  was  called  by  the  settlers,  on  account  of  his  lofty 
spirit  and  ambitious  temper.  These,  together  with  his  well- 
known  energy  and  enterprise,  had  rendered  him  an  object  of. 
great  jealousy  and  apprehension,  and  he  was  accused  of  hav- 
ing always  cherished  a  secret  and  implacable  hostility  towards 
the  whites.  Such  may  very  probably,  and  very  naturally,  have 
been  the  case.  He  considered  them  as  originally  but  mere  in- 
truders into  the  countr}^,  who  had  presumed  upon  indulgence, 
and  were  extending  an  influence  baneful  to  savage  life.  He 
saw  the  whole  race  of  his  countrymen  melting  before  thern 
from  the  face  of  the  earth  ;  their  territories  slipping  from  their 
hands,  and  their  tribes  becoming  feeble,  scattered,  and  depen- 
dent. It  may  be  said  that  the  soil  was  originally  purchased 
by  the  settlers  \  but  who  does  not  know  the  nature  of  Indian 
purchases,  in  the  early  periods  of  colonization  ?  The  Euro- 
peans always  made  thrifty  bargains,  through  their  superior 
adroitness  in  traffic  ;  and  they  gained  vast  accessions  of  terri- 
tory, by  easily-provoked  hostilities.  An  uncultivated  savage  is 
never  a  nice  inqjirer  into  the  refinements  of  law,  by  which  an 
injury  may  be  gradually  and  legally  inflicted.  Leading  facts 
are  all  by  which  he  judges  ;  and  it  v/as  enough  for  Philip  to 
know,  that  before  the  intrusion  of  the  Europeans  his  coun- 
trymen were  lords  of  the  soil,  and  that  now  they  were  becom- 
ing vagabonds  in  the  land  of  their  fathers. 

But  whatever  may  have  been  his  feelings  of  general  hos- 
tility, and  his  particular  indignation  at  the  treatment  of  his 
brother,  he  suppressed  them  for  the  present ;  renewed  the  con- 
tract with  the  settlers ;  and  resided  peaceably  for  many  years 
at  Pokanoket,  or  as  it  was  called  by  the  English,  Mount  Hope^* 


*  Now  Bristol,  Rhode  Island, 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

the  ancient  seat  of  dominion  of  his  tribe.  Suspicions,  how- 
ever, which  were  at  first  but  vague  and  indefinite,  began  to^ 
acquire  form  and  substance  ;  and  he  was  at  length  charged 
with  attempting  to  instigate  the  various  eastern  tribes  to  rise 
at  once,  and,  by  a  simultaneous  effort,  to  throw  off  the  yoke 
of  their  oppressors.  It  is  difficult  at  this  distant  period  to 
assign  the  proper  credit  due  to  these  early  accusations  against 
the  Indians.  There  was  a  proneness  to  suspicion,  and  an 
aptness  to  acts  of  violence  on  the  part  of  the  whites,  that 
gave  weight  and  importance  to  every  idle  tale.  Informers^ 
abounded,  where  tale-bearing  met  with  countenance  and  re- 
ward ;  and  the  sword  was  readily  unsheathed,  when  its  success 
was  certain,  and  it  carved  out  empire. 

The  only  positive  evidence  on  record  against  Philip  is  the- 
accusation  of  one  Sausaman,  a  renegado  Indian,  whose  natural 
cunning  had  been  quickened  by  a  partial  education  which  he 
had  received  among  the  settlers.    He  changed  his  faith  and 
his  allegiance  two  or  three  times  with  a  facility  that  evinced 
the  looseness  of  his  principles.    He  had  acted  for  some  time 
as  Philip's  confidential  secretary  and  counsellor,  and  had  en- 
joyed his  bounty  and  protection.    Finding,  however,  that  the 
clouds  of  adversity  were  gathering  round  his  patron,  he  aban- 
doned his  service  and  went  over  to  the  whites  ;  and,  in  order 
to  gain  their  favor,  charged  his  former  benefactor  with  plot- 
ting against  their  safety.    A  rigorous  investigation  took  place. 
Philip  and  several  of  his  subjects,  submitted  to  be  examined,, 
but  nothing  was  proved  against  them.    The  settlers,  however, 
had  now  gone  too  far  to  retract  ;  they  had  previously  de- 
termined that  Philip  was  a  dangerous  neighbor  ;  they  had 
publicly  evinced  their  distrust,  and  had  done  enough  to  insure 
his  hostility :  according,  therefore,  to  the  usual  mode  of  rea- 
soning in  these  cases,  his  destruction  had  become  necessary 
to  their  security.    Sausaman,  the  treacherous  informer,  was- 
shortly  after  found  dead  in  a  pond,  having  fallen  a  victim  to 
the  vengeance  of  his  tribe.    Three  Indians,  one  of  whom  was. 
a  friend  and  counsellor  of  Philip,  were  apprehended  and  triec^ 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  293 

and,  on  the  testimony  of  one  very  questionable  witness,  were 
condemned  and  executed  as  murderers. 

This  treatment  of  his  subjects  and  ignominious  punishment 
of  his  friend,  outraged  the  pride  and  exasperated  the  passions 
of  PhiHp.  The  bolt  which  had  fallen  thus  at  his  very  feet 
awakened  him  to  the  gathering  storm,  and  he  determined  to 
trust  himself  no  longer  in  the  power  of  the  white  men.  The 
fate  of  his  insulted  and  broken-hearted  brother  still  rankled 
in  his  mind  ;  and  he  had  a  farther  warning  in  the  tragical 
story  of  Miantonimo,  a  great  Sachem  of  the  Narrhagansets, 
Vno,  after  manfully  facing  his  accusers  before  a  tribunal  of 
the  colonists,  exculpating  himself  from  a  charge  of  conspiracy, 
and  receiving  assurances  of  amity,  had  been  perfidiously  de- 
spatched at  their  instigation.  Philip,  therefore,  gathered  his 
iighting  men  about  him  ;  persuaded  all  strangers  that  he  could 
to  join  his  cause  ;  sent  the  women  and  children  to  the  Narrha- 
gansets  for  safety  ;  and  wherever  he  appeared,  was  continually 
surrounded  by  armed  w^arriors. 

When  the  two  parties  were  thus  in  a  state  of  distrust  and 
irritation,  the  least  spark  was  sufficient  to  set  them  in  aflame. 
The  Indictus,  having  weapons  in  their  hands,  grew  mischiev- 
ous, and  committed  various  petty  depredations.  lu  one  of 
their  maraudings,  a  v/arrior  was  fired  upon  and  killed  by  a 
settler.  This  w^as  the  signal  for  open  hostilities  ;  and  the  In- 
dians pressed  to  revenge  the  death  of  their  comrade,  and  the 
alarm  of  war  resounded  through  the  Plymouth  colony. 

In  the  early  chronicles  of  these  dark  and  melancholy  times, 
^e  meet  with  many  indications  of  the  diseased  state  of  the 
public  mind.  The  gloom  of  religious  abstraction,  and  the 
wildness  of  their  situation,  among  trackless  forests  and  sav- 
age tribes,  had  disposed  the  colonists  to  superstitious  fancies, 
and  had  filled  their  imaginations  with  the  frightful  chimeras  of 
witchcraft  and  spectrology.  They  were  much  given  also  to  a 
belief  in  omens.  The  troubles  with  Philip  and  his  Indians 
■were  preceded,  we  are  told,  by  a  variety  of  those  awful  warnings 
Tvhich. forerun  great  and  nublic  calamities.    The  uerfect  ^trra 


294  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

of  an  Indian  bow  appeared  in  the  air  at  New-Plymouth,  which 
was  looked  upon  by  the  inhabitants  as  a  "  prodigious  appa- 
rition/"* At  Hadley,  Northampton,  and  other  towns  in  their 
neighborhood,  "  was  heard  the  report  of  a  great  piece  of  ord-^ 
nance,  with  the  shaking  of  the  earth  and  a  considerable 
echo."*  Others  were  alarmed  on  a  still  sunshiny  mornings 
by  the  discharge  of  guns  and  muskets  ;  bullets  seemed  to 
whistle  past  them,  and  the  noise  of  drums  resounded  in  the 
air,  seeming  to  pass  away  to  the  westward ;  others  fancied 
that  they  heard  the  galloping  of  horses  over  their  heads  ; 
and  certain  monstrous  births  which  took  place  about  the  time^ 
filled  the  superstitious  in  some  towns  with  doleful  forebodings. 
Many  of  these  portentous  sights  and  sounds  may  be  ascribed 
to  natural  phenomena;  to  the  northern  lights  which  occur 
vividly  in  those  latitudes ;  the  meteors  which  explode  in  the 
air  ;  the  casual  rushing  of  a  blast  through  the  top  branches 
of  the  forest ;  the  crash  of  falling  trees  or  disrupted  rocks  ; 
and  to  those  other  uncouth  sounds  and  echoes,  which  will 
sometimes  strike  the  ear  so  strangely  amidst  the  profound 
stillness  of  woodland  solitudes.  These  may  have  startled 
some  melancholy  imaginations,  may  have  been  exaggerated  by 
the  love  for  the  marvellous,  and  listened  to  with  that  avidity 
with  which  we  devour  whatever  is  fearful  and  mysterious. 
The  universal  currency  of  thesesuperstitious  fancies,  and  the 
grave  record  made  of  them  by  one  of  the  learned  men  of  the 
day,  are  strongly  characteristic  of  the  times. 

The  nature  of  the  contest  that  ensued  was  such  as  too 
often  distinguishes  the  warfare  between  civilized  men  and 
savages.  On  the  part  of  the  whites,  it  was  conducted  with 
superior  skill  and  success  ;  but  with  a  wastefulness  of  the 
blood,  and  a  disregard  of  the  natural  rights  of  their  antago- 
nists :  on  the  part  of  the  Indians  it  was  waged  with  the  des- 
peration of  men  fearless  of  death,  and  who  had  nothing  to 
isypect  from  peace,  but  humiliation,  dependence  and  decay. 

-a^e  events  of  the  war  are  transmitted  to  us  by  a  worthy 
♦  The  Rev.  Increase  Mather's  History 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT,  295: 

clergyman  of  the  lime ;  who  dwells  with  horror  and  mdig- 
nation  on  every  hostile  act  of  the  Indians,  however  justifiable, 
whilst  he  mentions  with  applause  the  most  sanguinary  atroc- 
ities of  the  whites.    Philip  is  reviled  as  a  murderer  and  a 
traitor ;  without  considering  that  he  was  a  true-born  prince, 
,  gallantly  fighting  at  the  head  of  his  subjects  to  avenge  the 
•  wrongs  of  his  family  ;  to   retrieve  the  tottering  power  of  his 
»  line  ;  and  to  deliver  his  native  land  from  the  oppression  of 
usurping  strangers. 

The  project  of  a  wide  and  simultaneous  revolt,  if  such 
<  had  really  been  formed,  was  worthy  of  a  capacious  mind,  and 
had  it  not  been  prematurely   discovered,  might  have  been 
'  overwhelming  in  its  consequences.    The  war  that  actually 
broke  out  was  but  a  war  of  detail ;  a  mere  succession  of  casual 
'  exploits  and  unconnected  enterprises.    Still  it  sets  forth  the 
;  military  genius  and  daring  prowess  of  Philip  ;  and  wherever, 
'  in  the  prejudiced  and  passionate  narrations  that  have  been 
given  of  it,  we  can  arrive  at  simple  facts,  v/e  find  him  dis- 
playing a  vigorous  mind  :  a  fertility  in  expedients  ;  a  contempt 
of  suffering  and  hardship ;  and  an  unconquerable  resolution, 
that  command  our  sympathy  and  applause. 

Driven  from  his  paternal  domains  at  Mount  Hope,  he 
threw  himself  into  the  depths  of  those  vast  and  trackless  fof> 
ests  that  skirted  the  settlements,  and  were  almost  impervious 
to  anything  but  a  wild  beast  or  an  Indian.  Here  he  gathered  to- 
I  gether  his  forces,  like  the  storm  accumulating  its  stores  of 
mischief  in  the  bosom  of  the  thunder-cloud,  and  would  suddenly 
^  emerge  at  a  time  and  place  least  expected,  carrying  havoc  and 
dismay  into  the  villages.   There  were  now  and  then  indications 
,   of  these  impending  ravages  that  filled  the  minds  of  the  colonists 
with  awe  and  apprehension.    The  report  of  a  distant  gun 
would  perhaps  be  heard  from  the  solitary  woodland,  where 
there  was  known  to  be  no  white  man  ;  the  cattle  which  had 
been  wandering  in  the  woods,  would  sometimes  return  home 
wounded  ;  or  an  Indian  or  two  would  be  seen  lurking  about 
the  skirts  of  the  forests,  and  suddenly  disappearing  ;  as  tiie 


296  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

lightning  will  sometimes  be  seen  playing  silently  about  the 
edge  of  the  cloud  that  is  brewing  up  the  tempest. 

Though  sometimes  pursued,  and  even  surrounded  by  the 
settlers,  yet  Philip  as  often  escaped  almost  miraculously  from 
their  toils  j  and  plunging  into  the  wilderness,  would  be  lost  to 
all  search  or  inquiry  until  he  again  emerged  at  some  far  dis- 
tant quarter  laying  the  country  desolate.  Among  his  strong- 
holds were  the  great  swamps  or  morasses,  which  extend  in 
some  parts  of  New  England  ;  composed  of  loose  bogs  of 
deep  black  mud  ;  perplexed  with  thickets,  brambles,  rank 
Teeds,  the  shattered  and  mouldering  trunks  of  fallen  trees, 
overshadowed  by  lugubrious  hemlocks.  The  uncertain  foot- 
ing and  the  tangled  mazes  of  these  shaggy  wilds,  rendered 
them  almost  impracticable  to  the  white  man,  though  the  Indian 
could  thread  their  labyrinths  with  the  agility  of  a  deer.  Into 
one  of  these,  the  great  swamp  of  Pocasset  Neck,  was  Philip 
once  driv^en  with  a  band  of  his  followers.  The  English  did 
not  dare  to  pursue  him,  fearing  to  venture  into  these  dark  and 
Frightful  recesses,  where  they  might  perish  in  fens  and  miry 
pits  or  be  shot  down  by  lurking  foes.  They  therefore  invested 
the  entrance  to  the  neck,  and  began  to  build  a  fort,  with  the 
thought  of  starving  out  the  foe ;  but  Philip  and  his  warriors 
wafted  themselves  on  a  raft  over  an  arm  of  the  sea,  in  the 
dead  of  night,  leaving  the  women  and  children  behind  ;  and 
escaped  away  to  the  westward,  kindling  the  flames  of  war 
among  the  tribes  of  Massachusetts  and.  the  Nipmuck  country, 
and  threatening  the  colony  of  Connecticut. 

In  this  way  Philip  became  a  theme  of  universal  apprehen- 
sion. The  mystery  in  which  he  was  enveloped  exaggerated 
his  real  terrors.  He  was  an  evil  that  walked  in  darkness  ; 
whose  coming  none  could  foresee,  and  against  which  none 
knew  when  to  be  on  the  alert.  The  whole  country  abounded 
with  rumors  and  alarms.  Philip  seemed  almost  possessed  of 
xibiquity  ;  for,  in  whatever  part  of  the  widely  extended  frontier 
an  irruption  from  the  forest  took  place,  Philip  was  said  to  be  its 
leader.    Many  superstitious  notions  also  were  circulated  con- 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  29^ 

cerning  him.  He  was  said  to  deal  in  necromancy,  and  to  be 
attended  by  an  old  Indian  witch  or  prophetess,  whom  he  con- 
sulted, and  who  assisted  him  by  her  charms  and  incantations. 
This  indeed  was  frequently  the  case  with  Indian  chiefs  ;  either 
through  their  own  credulity,  or  to  act  upon  that  of  their  fol- 
Uowers  :  and  the  influence  o[  the  prophet  and  the  dreamer 
over  Indian  superstition  has  been  fully  evidenced  in  recent  in- 
stances of  savage  warfare. 

At  the  time  that  Philip  effected  his  escape  from  Pocasset, 
his  fortunes  were  in  a  desperate  condition.  His  forces  had 
been  thinned  by  repeated  fights,  and  he  had  lost  almost  the 
whole  of  his  resources.  In  this  time  of  adversity  he  found  a. 
faithful  friend  in  Canonchet,  Chief  Sachem  of  all  the  Narrha- 
gansets.  He  w^as  the  son  and  heir  of  Miantonimo,  the  great 
Sachem,  who,  as  already  mentioned,  after  an  honorable  acquit- 
tal of  the  charge  of  conspiracy,  had  been  privately  put  tc 
death  at  the  perfidious  instigations  of  the  settlers.  He 
was  the  heir,"  says  the  old  chronicler,  of  all  his  father^s 
pride  and  insolence,  as  well  as  "  of  his  malice  towards  the 
English  ;  he  certainly  was  the  heir  of  his  insults  and. 
injuries,  and  the  legitimate  avenger  of  his  murder.  Though 
he  had  forborne  to  take  an  active  part  in  this  hopeless  war, 
yet  he  received  Philip  and  his  broken  forces  with  open  arms  ;. 
and  gave  them  the  most  generous  countenance  and  support. 
This  at  once  drew  upon  him  the  hostility  of  the  English;  and 
it  was  determined  to  strike  a  signal  blow,  that  should  involve 
both  the  Sachems  in  one  common  ruin.  A  great  force  was, 
therefore,  gathered  together  from  Massachusetts,  Plymouth, 
and  Connecticut,  aod  was  sent  into  the  Narrhaganset  country 
in  the  depth  of  winter,  when  the  swamps,  being  frozen  and  leaf- 
less, could  be  traversed  with  comparative  facility,  and  would 
no  longer  afford  dark  and  impenetrable  fastnesses  to  the 
Indians. 

Apprehensive  of  attack,  Canonchet  had  conveyed  th^ 
greater  part  of  his  stores,  together  with  the  old,  the  infirm 
the  women  and  children  of  his  tribe,  to  a  strong  fortress ;  wheir 


r429S  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

he  and  Philip  had  likewise  drawn  up  the  flower  of  their  forces. 
This  fortress,  deemed  by  the  Indians  impregnable,  was  situated 
upon  <i  rising  mound  or  kind  of  island,  of  five  or  six  acres,  in 
the  midst  of  a  swamp  ;  it  was  constructed  with  a  degree  of 
judgment  and  skill  vastly  superior  to  what  is  usually  displayed 
in  Indian  fortification,  and  indicative  of  the  martial  genius  of 
these  two  chieftains. 

Guided  by  a  renegado  Indian,  the  English  penetrated, 
through  I>ecember  snows,  to  this  stronghold,  and  came  upon 
the  garrison  by  surprise.  The  fight  was  fierce  and  tumultuous- 
The  assailants  were  repulsed  in  their  first  attack,  and  several 
of  their  bravest  officers  w^ere  shot  down  in  the  act  of  storm- 
ing the  fortress  sword  in  hand.  The  assault  was  renewed 
with  greater  success.  A  lodgement  was  effected.  The  In- 
dians were  driven  from  one  post  to  another.  They  disputed 
their  ground  inch  by  inch,  fighting  with  the  fury  of  despair. 
Most  of  their  veterans  were  cut  to  pieces ;  and  after  a  long 
and  bloody  battle,  Philip  and  Canonchet,  with  a  handful  of 
surviving  warriors,  retreated  from  the  fort,  and  took  refuge  in 
the  thickets  of  the  surrounding  forest. 

The  victors  set  fire  to  the  wigwams  and  the  fort;  the 
whole  was  soon  in  a  blaze  ;  many  of  the  old  men,  the  wom.en 
and  the  children,  perished  in  the  flames.  This  last  outrage 
overcame  even  the  stoicism  of  the  savage.  The  neighboring 
wood  resounded  with  the  yells  of  rage  and  despair,  uttered 
by  the  fugitive  warriors  as  they  beheld  the  destruction  of 
their  dwellings,  and  heard  the  agonizing  cries  of  their  wives 
and  oft'spring.  "  The  burning  of  the  wigwams,"  says  a  cotem- 
porary  writer,  the  shrieks  and  cries  of  the  women  and  chil- 
dren, and  the  yelling  of  the  warriors,  exhibited  a  most  horrible 
and  affecting  scene,  so  that  it  greatly  moved  some  of  the  sol- 
diers." The  same  WTiter  cautiously  adds,  "  they  were  in  much 
Joii^tthen,  and  afterwards  seriously  inquired,  whether  burning 
their  enemies  alive  could  be  consistent  with  humanity,  and 
the  benevolent  principles  of  the  gospel."  * 

The  fate  of  the  brave  and  generous  Canonchet  is  worthy 
*MS  of  the  Rev.  W.  Ruggles. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  299 

of  particular  mention  :  the  last  scene  of  his  life  is  one  of  the 
noblest  instances  on  record  of  Indian  magnanimity. 

Broken  down  in  his  power  and  resources  by  this  signal  de- 
feat, yet  faithful  to  his  ally  and  to  the  hapless  cause  which  he 
had  espoused,  he  rejected  all  overtures  of  peace,  offered  on 
condition  of  betraying  Philip  and  his  followers,  and  declared 
that  "  he  would  fight  it  out  to  the  last  man,  rather  than  be 
come  a  servant  to  the  English."  His  home  being  destioyed  ; 
his  country  harassed  and  laid  w^aste  by  the  incursions  of  the 
conquerors  ;  he  was  obliged  to  wander  away  to  the  banks  of 
the  Connecticut ;  where  he  formed  a  rallying  point  to  the 
whole  body  of  western  Indians,  and  laid  waste  several  of  the 
English  settlements. 

Early  in  the  spring,  he  departed  on  a  hazardous  expedi- 
tion, with  only  thirty  chosen  men,  to  penetrate  to  Seaconck, 
in  the  vicinity  of  Mount  Hope,  and  to  procure  seed-corn  to 
plant  for  the  sustenance  of  his  troops.  This  little  band  of 
adventurers  had  passed  safely  through  the  Pequod  country, 
and  were  in  the  centre  of  the  Narrhaganset,  resting  at  some 
wigwams  near  Pautucket  river,  when  an  alarm  was  given  of 
an  approaching  enemy.  Having  but  seven  men  by  him  at  the 
time,  Canonchet  despatched  two  of  them  to  the  top  of  a 
neighboring  hill,  to  bring  intelligence  of  the  foe. 

Panic-struck  by  the  appearance  of  a  troop  of  English  and 
Indians  rapidly  advancing,  they  fied-in  breathless  terror  past 
their  chieftain,  without  stopping  to  inform  him  of  the  danger, 
Canonchet  sent  another  scout,  who  did  the  same.  He  then 
sent  two  more,  one  of  whom,  hurrying  back  in  confusion  and. 
affright,  told  him  that  the  whole  British  army  was  at  hand. 
Canonchet  saw  there  was  no  choice  but  immediate  flight.  He 
attempted  to  escape  round  the  hill,  but  was  perceived  and 
hotly  pursued  by  the  hostile  Indians,  and  a  few  of  the  fleetest 
of  the  English.  Finding  the  swiftest  pursuer  close  upon  his 
heels,  he  threw  off,  first  his  blanket,  then  his  silver-laced  coat 
and  belt  of  peag,  by  which  his  enemies  knew  him  to  be 
Canonchet,  and  redoubled  the  eagerness  of  pursuit. 


300  WORKS  OF  l^ASHINGTON  TrVING. 

At  length,  in  dashing  through  the  river,  his  foot  slipped 
upon  a  stone,  and  he  fell  so  deep  as  to  wet  his  gun.  This 
accident  so  struck  him  with  despair,  that,  as  he  afterwards 
confessed,  his  heart  and  his  bowels  turned  within  him,  and 
Jie  became  like  a  rotten  stick,  void  of  strength.'* 

To  such  a  degree  was  he  unnerved,  that,  being  seized  by 
a  Pequod  Indian  within  a  short  distance  of  the  river,  he  made 
no  resistance,  though  a  man  of  great  vigor  of  body  and  bold- 
ness of  heart.  But  on  being  made  prisoner,  the  whole  pride 
of  his  spirit  arose  within  him  ;  and  from  that  moment,  we  find, 
in  the  anecdotes  given  by  his  enemies,  nothing  but  repeated 
flashes  of  elevated  and  prince-like  heroism.  Being  questioned 
by  one  of  the  English  who  first  came  up  with  him,  and  who 
had  not  attained  his  twenty-second  year,  the  proud-hearted 
warrior,  looking  with  lofty  contempt  upon  this  youthful  counte- 
nance, replied,  "  You  are  a  child — you  cannot  understand 
matters  of  war — let  your  brother  or  your  chief  come — him  will 
I  answer.** 

Though  repeated  offers  were  made  to  him  of  his  life,  on 
condition  of  submitting  with  his  nation  to  the  English,  yet  he 
rejected  them  with  disdain,  and  refused  to  send  any  proposals 
of  the  kind  to  the  great  body  of  his  subjects  ;  saying,  that  he 
knew  none  of  them  would  comply.  Being  reproached  with 
his  breach  of  faith  towards  the  whites  \  his  boast  that  he 
would  not  deliver  up  a  Wampanoag,  nor  the  parings  of  a 
Wampanoag's  nail ;  and  his  threat  that  he  would  burn  the 
English  alive  in  their  houses  ;  he  disdained  to  justify  himself, 
haughtily  answering  that  others  were  as  forward  for  the  war 
as  himself,  "and  he  desired  to  hear  no  more  thereof/' 

So  noble  and  unshaken  a  spirit,  so  true  a  fidelity  to  his 
cause  and  his  friend,  might  have  touched  the  feelings  of  the 
generous  and  the  brave  ;  but  Canonchet  was  an  Indian  ;  a 
being  towards  whom  war  had  no  courtesy,  humanity  no  law, 
religion  no  compassion — he  was  condemned  to  die.  The 
last  words  of  his  that  are  recorded,  are  worthy  the  greatness 
<si  his  soul.    When  sentence  of  death  was  passed  upon  him, 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  301- 

he  observed,  "  that  he  liked  it  well,  for  he  should  die  before 
his  heart  was  soft,  or  he  had  spoken  anything  unworthy,  of 
himself."  His  enemies  gave  him  the  death  of  a  soldier,  for 
he  was  shot  at  Stoningham,  by  three  young  Sachems  of  his 
own  rank. 

The  defeat  of  the  Narrhaganset  fortress,  and  the  death  of 
Canonchet,  were  fatal  blows  to  the  fortunes  of  King  Philip. 
He  made  an  ineffectual  attempt  to  raise  a  head  of  war,  by 
stirring  up  the  Mohawks  to  take  arms  ;  but  though  possessed 
of  the  native  talents  of  a  statesman,  his  arts  were  counteracted 
by  the  superior  arts  of  his  enlightened  enemies,  and  the 
terror  of  their  warlike  skill  began  to  subdue  the  resolution  of 
the  neighboring  tribes.  The  unfortunate  chieftain  saw  himself 
daily  stripped  of  power,  and  his  ranks  rapidly  thinning  around 
him.  Some  were  suborned  by  the  whites  ;  others  fell  victims- 
to  hunger  and  fatigue,  and  to  the  frequent  attacks  by  which 
they  were  harassed.  His  stores  were  all  captured ;  his 
chosen  friends  were  swept  away  from  before  his  eyes  ;  his 
uncle  was  shot  down  by  his  side  ;  his  sister  was  carried  intO' 
captivity  ;  and  in  one  of  his  narrow  escapes  he  was  compelled 
to  leave  his  beloved  wife  and  only  son  to  the  mercy  of  the 
enemy.  "  His  ruin,"  says  the  historian,  being  thus  gradu- 
ally carried  on,  his  misery  was  not  prevented,  but  augmented 
thereby  ;  being  himself  made  acquainted  with  the  sense  and 
experimental  feeling  of  the  captivity  of  his  children,  loss  of 
friends,  slaughter  of  his  subjects,  bereavement  of  all  family 
relations,  and  being  stripped  of  all  outward  comforts,  before 
his  own  life  should  be  taken  away." 

To  fill  up  the  measure  of  his  misfortunes,  his  own  followers 
began  to  plot  against  his  life,  that  by  sacrificing  him  they 
might  purchase  dishonorable  safety.  Through  treachery,  a 
number  of  his  faithful  adherents,  the  subjects  of  Wetamoe,  an 
Indian  princess  of  Pocasset,  a  near  kinswoman  and  confederate 
of  Philip,  were  betrayed  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy.  Weta- 
moe was  among  them  at  the  time,  and  attempted  to  make  her 
escape  by  crossing  a  neighboring  river :  either  exhausted  by 


302  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

swimming,  or  starved  with  cold  and  hunger,  she  was  found 
dead  and  naked  near  the  water  side.  But  persecution  ceased 
not  at  the  grave :  even  death,  the  refuge  of  the  wretched, 
where  the  wicked  commonly  cease  from  troubling,  was  no 
protection  to  this  outcast  female,  whose  great  crime  was  affec- 
tionate fidelity  to  her  kinsman  and  her  friend.  Her  corpse 
was  the  object  of  unmanly  and  dastardly  vengeance  ;  the 
head  was  severed  from  the  body  and  set  upon  a  pole,  and 
was  thus  exposed,  at  Taunton,  to  the  view  of  her  captive  sub- 
jects. They  immediately  recognized  the  features  of  their  un- 
fortunate queen,  and  were  so  affected  at  this  barbarous  spec- 
tacle, that  we  are  told  they  broke  forth  into  the  "  most  horrid 
-and  diabolical  lamentations." 

However  Philip  had  borne  up  against  the  complicated 
miseries  and  misfortunes  that  surrounded  him,  the  treachery 
of  his  followers  seemed  to  wring  his  heart  and  reduced  him 
to  despondency.  It  is  said  that  "  he  never  rejoiced  afterwards, 
nor  had  success  in  any  of  his  designs.''  The  spring  of  hope 
was  broken — the  ardor  of  enterprise  was  extinguished  :  he 
looked  around,  and  all  was  danger  and  darkness  ;  there  was 
:no  eye  to  pity,  nor  any  arm  that  could  bring  deliverance. 
With  a  scanty  band  of  followers,  who  still  remained  true  to 
his  desperate  fortunes,  the  unhappy  Philip  wandered  back  to 
the  vicinity  of  Mount  Hope,  the  ancient  dwelling  of  his 
fathers.  Here  he  lurked  about,  like  a  spectre,  among  the 
scenes  of  former  power  and  prosperity,  now  bereft  of  home, 
of  family,  and  friend.  There  needs  no  better  picture  of  his 
destitute  and  piteous  situation,  than  that  furnished  by  the 
Jiomely  pen  of  the  chronicler,  who  is  unwarily  enlisting  the 
feelings  of  the  reader  in  favor  of  the  hapless  warrior  whom  he 
reviles.  Philip,"  he  says,  *'like  a  savage  wild  beast,  having 
been  hunted  by  the  English  forces  through  the  woods  above 
a  hundred  miles  backward  and  forward,  at  last  was  driven  to 
his  own  den  upon  Mount  Hope,  where  he  had  retired,  with  a 
iew  of  his  best  friends,  into  a  swamp,  which  proved  but  a 
prison  to  keep  him  fast  till  the  messengers  of  death  came  by 
4ivine  permission  to  execute  vengeance  upon  him/' 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  303 

Even  at  this  last  refuge  of  desperation  and  despair,  a 
sullen  grandeur  gathers  round  his  memory.  We  picture  him 
to  ourselves  seated  among  his  careworn  followers,  brooding  in 
silence  over  his  blasted  fortunes,  and  acquiring  a  savage  sub- 
limity from  the  wildness  and  dreariness  of  his  lurking-place., 
Defeated,  but  not  dismayed — crushed  to  the  earth,  but  not 
humiliated — he  seemed  to  grow  more  haughty  beneath  disaster 
and  to  experience  a  fierce  satisfaction  in  draining  the  last 
dregs  of  bitterness.  Little  minds  are  tamed  and  subdued  by 
misfortune  ;  but  great  minds  rise  above  it.  The  very  idea  of 
submission  awakened  the  fury  of  Philip,  and  he  smote  to  death 
one  of  his  followers,  who  proposed  an  expedient  of  peace. 
The  brother  of  the  victim  made  his  escape,  and  in  revenge 
betrayed  the  retreat  of  his  chieftain.  A  body  of  white  men 
and  Indians  were  immediately  despatched  to  the  swamp  where 
Philip  lay  crouched,  glaring  with  fury  and  despair.  Before 
he  was  aware  of  their  approach,  they  had  begun  to  surround 
him.  In  a  little  while  he  saw  five  of  his  trustiest  followers 
laid  dead  at  his  feet ;  all  resistance  was  vain  ;  he  rushed  forth 
from  his  covert,  and  made  a  headlong  attempt  at  escape,  but 
was  shot  through  the  heart  by  a  renegado  Indian  of  his  own 
nation. 

Such  is  the  scanty  story  of  the  brave,  but  unfortunate 
King  Philip ;  persecuted  while  living,  slandered  and  dishon- 
ored when  dead.  If,  however,  we  consider  even  the  prejudiced 
anecdotes  furnished  us  by  his  enemies,  we  may  perceive  in 
them  traces  of  amiable  and  lofty  character,  sufficient  to  awaken 
sympathy  for  his  fate  and  respect  for  his  memory.  We  find, 
that  amidst  all  the  harassing  cares  and  ferocious  passions  of 
constant  warfare,  he  was  alive  to  the  softer  feelings  of  connu- 
bial love  and  paternal  tenderness,  and  to  the  generous  senti- 
ment of  friendship.  The  captivity  of  his  "  beloved  wife  and 
only  son "  is  mentioned  with  exultation,  as  causing  him 
poignant  misery  :  the  death  of  any  near  friend  is  triumphantly 
recorded  as  a  new  blow  on  his  sensibilities  ;  but  the  treachery 
and  desertion  of  marjy  of  his  followers,  in  whose  affections  he 


304  WORKS  OF  WASFi/iVCTOIV  IRVING, 

had  confided,  is  said  to  have  desolated  his  heart,  and  to  have 
bereaved  him  of  all  farther  comfort.  He  was  a  patriot,  at- 
tached to  his  native  soil — a  prince  true  to  his  subjects,  and 
indignant  of  their  wrongs — a  soldier,  daring  in  battle,  firm  in 
adversity,  patient  of  fatigue,  of  hunger,  of  every  variety  of 
bodily  sufering,  and  ready  to  perish  in  the  cause  he  had 
espoused.  Proud  of  heart,  and  with  an  untameable  love  of 
natural  liberty,  he  preferred  to  enjoy  it  among  the  beasts  of 
the  forests,  or  in  the  dismal  and  famished  recesses  of  swamps 
and  morasses,  rather  than  bow  hi3  haughty  spirit  to  submis- 
sion, and  live  dependent  and  despised  in  the  ease  and  luxury 
of  the  settlements.  With  heroic  qualities  and  bold  achieve- 
ments that  would  have  graced  a  civilized  warrior,  and  have 
rendered  him  the  theme  of  the  poet  and  the  historian,  he  lived 
a  wanderer  and  a  fugitive  in  his  native  land,  and  went  down, 
like  a  lonely  bark,  foundering  amid  darkness  and  tempest — 
without  a  pitying  eye  to  weep  his  fall,  or  a  friendly  hand  to 
record  his  struggle. 


^ETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON.  GENT-  xo% 


JOHN  BULL. 

An  old  song,  made  by  an  aged  old  pate, 
Of  an  old  worshipful  gentleman  who  had  a  great  estate, 
That  kept  a  brave  old  house  at  a  bountiful  rate, 
And  an  old  porter  to  relieve  the  poor  at  his  gate. 

With  an  old  study  fill'd  full  of  learned  old  books, 

With  an  old  reverend  chaplain,  you  might  know  him  by  his  look% 

With  an  old  buttery-hatch  worn  quite  off  the  hooks. 

And  an  old  kitchen  that  maintained  half-a-dozen  old  cooks. 

Like  an  old  courtier,  &c. 

Old  Song. 

There  is  no  species  of  humor  in,  which  the  EngUsh  more 
excel,  than  that  which  consists  in  caricaturing  and  giving 
ludicrous  appellations  or  nick-names.  In  this  way  they  have 
whimsically  designated,  not  merely  individuals,  but  nations; 
and  in  their  fondness  for  pushing  a  joke,  they  have  not  spared 
even  themselves.  One  would  think  that,  in  personifying  itself, 
a  nation  would  be  apt  to  picture  something  grand,  heroic, 
and  imposing ;  but  it  is  characteristic  of  the  peculiar  humor 
of  the  English,  and  of  their  love  for  what  is  blunt,  comic,  and 
familiar,  that  they  have  embodied  their  national  oddities  in 
the  figure  of  a  sturdy,  corpulent  old  fellow,  with  a  three- 
cornered  hat,  red  waistcoat,  leather  breeches,  and  stout  oaken 
cudgel.  Thus  they  have  taken  a  singular  delight  in  exhibit- 
ing their  most  private  foibles  in  a  laughable  point  of  view; 
and  have  been  so  successful  in  their  delineation,  that  there  is 
scarcely  a  being  in  actual  existence  more  absolutely  present 
to  the  public  mind,  than  that  eccentric  personage,  John  Bull. 

Perhaps  the  continual  contemplation  of  the  character  thus 

2Q 


40B  WORKS  OF  WASHING  TON  IR  Vlim. 

drawn  of  them,  has  contributed  to  fix  it  upon  the  nation  ;  and) 
thus  to  give  reaUty  to  what  at  first  may  have  been  painted  ia 
a  great  measure  from  the  imagination.  Men  are  apt  to  ac- 
quire peculiarities  that  are  continually  ascribed  to  them.  The 
common  orders  of  English  seem  wonderfully  captivated  with 
the  beau  ideal  which  they  have  formed  of  John  Bull,  and  en- 
deavor to  act  up  to  the  broad  caricature  that  is  perpetually 
before  their  eyes.  Unluckily,  they  sometimes  make  their 
boasted  Bull-ism  an  apology  for  their  prejudice  or  grossness  ; 
and  this  I  have  especially  noticed  among  those  truly  home- 
bred and  genuine  sons  of  the  soil  who  have  never  migrated^ 
beyond  the  sound  of  Bow  Bells.  If  one  of  these  should  be  a 
little  uncouth  in  speech,  and  apt  to  utter  impertinent  truths^, 
he  confesses  that  he  is  a  real  John  Bull,  and  always  speaks 
his  mind.  If  he  now  and  then  flies  into  an  unreasonable 
burst  of  passion  about  trifles,  he  observes  that  John  Bull  is  a 
choleric  old  blade,  but  then  his  passion  is  over  in  a  moment^ 
and  he  bears  no  malice.  If  he  betrays  a  coarseness  of  taste, 
and  an  insensibility  to  foreign  refinements,  he  thanks  Heaven 
for  his  ignorance — he  is  a  plain  John  Bull,  and  has  no  relish 
for  frippery  and  knicknacks.  His  very  proneness  to  be  gulled 
by  strangers,  and  to  pay  extravagantly  for  absurdities,  is  ex- 
cused under  the  plea  of  munificence — for  John  is  always  more- 
generous  than  wise. 

Thus,  under  the  name  of  John  Bull,  he  will  contrive  to^ 
argue  every  fault  into  a  merit,  and  will  frankly  convict  himself 
of  being  the  honestest  fellow  in  existence. 

However  little,  therefore,  the  character  may  have  suited  in 
the  fi'rst  instance,  it  has  gradually  adapted  itself  to  the  nation,, 
or  rather  they  have  adapted  themselves  to  each  other  ;  and  a. 
stranger  who  wishes  to  study  English  peculiarities,  may  gather 
much  valuable  information  from  the  innumerable  portraits  of 
John  Bull,  as  exhibited  in  the  windows  of  the  caricature-shops* 
Still,  however,  he  is  one  of  those  fertile  humorists,  that  are 
continually  throwing  out  new  portraits,  and  presenting  aiffe^ 
ent  aspects  from  different  points  of  view ;  and,  often  as  he 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  CENT.  307 

has  been  described,  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  to  give  a 
slight  sketch  of  him,  such  as  he  has  met  my  eye. 

John  Bull,  to  all  appearance,  is  a  plain  downright  matter- 
of-fact  fellow,  with  much  less  of  poetry  about  him  than  rich 
prose.  There  is  little  of  romance  in  his  nature,  but  a  vast 
deal  of  strong  natural  feeling.  He  excels  in  humor  more 
than  in  wit ;  is  jolly  rather  than  gay ;  melancholy  rather 
than  morose  ;  can  easily  be  moved  to  a  sudden  tear,  or  sur- 
prised into  a  broad  laugh  ;  but  he  loathes  sentiment,  and  has 
no  turn  for  light  pleasantry.  He  is  a  boon  companion,  if  you 
allow  him  to  have  his  humor,  and  to  talk  about  himself  ;  and 
he  will  stand  by  a  friend  in  a  quarrel,  with  life  and  purse, 
however  soundly  he  may  be  cudgelled. 

In  this  last  respect,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  'has  a  propensity 
to  be  somewhat  too  ready.  He  is  a  busy-minded  personage, 
who  thinks  not  merely  for  himself  and  fami:.y,  but  for  all  the 
country  round,  and  is  most  generally  disposed  to  be  every 
body's  champion.  He  is  continually  volunteering  his  services 
to  settle  his  neighbors'  affairs,  and  takes  it  in  great  dudgeon 
if  they  engage  in  any  matter  of  consequence  without  asking 
his  advice  ;  though  he  seldom  engages  in  any  friendly  office 
of  the  kind  without  finishing  by  getting  into  a  squabble  with 
all  parties,  and  then  railing  bitterly  at  their  ingratitude.  He 
unluckily  took  lessons  in  his  youth  in  the  noble  science  of 
defence,  and  having  accomplished  himself  in  the  use  of  his 
limbs  and  his  weapons,  and  become  a  perfect  master  at 
boxing  and  cudgel-play,  he  has  had  a  troublesome  life  of  it 
ever  since.  He  cannot  hear  of  a  quarrel  between  the  most 
distant  of  his  neighbors,  but  he  begins  incontinently  to  fumble 
with  the  head  of  his  cudgel,  and  consider  whether  his  interest 
or  honor  does  not  require  that  he  should  meddle  in  the  broil. 
Indeed,  he  has  extended  his  relations  of  pride  and  policy  so  com- 
pletely over  the  whole  country,  that  no  event  can  take  place, 
without  infringing  some  of  his  finely-spun  rights  and  dignities. 
Couched  in  his  little  domain,  with  these  filaments  stretching 
■forth  in  every  direction,  he  is  like  some  choleric,  bottle-bellied 


3o8  WOKKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

old  spider,  who  has  woven  his  web  over  a  whole  chnmber,  so 
that  a  fly  cannot  buzz,  nor  a  breeze  blow,  without  startling  his 
repose,  and  causing  him  to  sally  forth  wrathfully  from  his 
den. 

Though  really  a  good-hearted,  good-tempered  old  fellow 
at  bottom,  yet  he  is  singularly  fond  of  being  in  the  midst  of 
contention.  It  is  one  of  his  peculiarities,  however,  that  he^  ' 
only  relishes  the  beginning  of  an  affray  ;  he  always  goes  into  a 
fis^ht  with  alacrity,  but  comes  out  of  it  grumbling  even  when 
victorious  ;  and  though  no  one  fights  with  more  obstinacy  to 
carry  a  contested  point,  yet  when  the  battle  is  over  and  he 
comes  to  the  reconciliation,  he  is  so  much  taken  up  with  the 
mere  shaking  of  hands,  that  he  is  apt  to  let  his  antagonist  pocket 
all  that  they  have  been  quarrelling  about.  It  is  not,  there- 
fore, fighting  that  he  ought  so  much  to  be  on  his  guard  against, 
as  making  friends.  It  is  difficult  to  cudgel  him  out  of  a. 
farthing  j  but  put  him  in  a  good  humor,  and  you  may  bargain 
him  out  of  all  the  money  in  his  pocket.  He  is  like  a  stout 
ship,,  which  will  weather  the  roughest  storm  uninjured,  but 
roll  its  masts  overboard  in  the  succeeding  calm. 

He  is  a  little  fond  of  playing  the  magnifico  abroad  ;  of 
pulling  out  a  long  purse ;  flinging  his  money  bravely  about 
at  boxing-matches,  horse-races,  cock-fights,  and  carrying  a 
high  head  among  "  gentlemen  of  the  fancy  ;  "  but  immediately 
after  one  of  these  fits  of  extravagance,  he  will  be  taken  with 
violent  qualms  of  economy ;  stop  short  at  the  most  trivial 
expenditure  ;  talk  desperately  of  being  ruined  and  brought 
upon  the  parish  ;  and  in  such  moods  will  not  pay  the  smallest 
tradesman's  bill  without  violent  altercation.  He  is,  in  fact, 
the  most  punctual  and  discontented  paymaster  in  the  world  ; 
drawing  his  coin  out  of  his  breeches  pocket  with  infinite  reluc- 
tance ;  paying  to  the  uttermost  farthing,  but  accompanying 
everv  guinea  with  a  growl. 

With  all  his  talk  of  economy,  however,  he  is  a  bountiful 
provider,  and  a  hospitable  house-keeper.  His  economy  is 
of  a  whimsical  kind,  its  chief  object  being  to  devise  how  he^ 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  309 

may  afford  to  be  extravagant ;  for  he  will  begrudge  himself 
a  beef-steak  and  pint  of  port  one  day,  that  he  may  roast  an  ox 
whole,  broach  a  hogshead  of  ale,  and  treat  all  his  neighbors 
on  the  next. 

His  domestic  establishment  is  enormously  expensive  :  not 
so  much  from  any  great  outward  parade,  as  from  the  great 
consumption  of  solid  beef  and  pudding;  the  vast  number  of 
'  followers  he  feeds  and  clothes  ;  and  his  singular  disposition  to 
pay  hugely  for  small  services.  He  is  a  most  kind  and  indul- 
gent master,  and,  provided  his  servants  humor  his  peculiarities, 
flatter  his  vanity  a  little  now  and  then,  and  do  not  peculate 
grossly  on  him  before  his  face,  they  may  manage  him  to 
perfection.  Everything  that  lives  on  him  seems  to  thrive 
and  grow  fat.  His  house  servants  are  well  paid,  and  pam- 
pered, and  have  little  to  do.  His  horses  are  sleek  and  lazy, 
and  prance  slowly  before  his  state  carriage ;  and  his  house- 
dogs sleep  quietly  about  the  door,  and  will  hardly  bark  at  a 
house-breaker. 

His  family  mansion  is  an  old  castellated  manor-house,  gray 
with  age,  and  of  a  most  venerable,  though  weather-beaten, 
appearance.  It  has  been  built  upon  no  regular  plan,  but  is 
a  vast  accumulation  of  parts,  erected  in  various  tastes  and  ages. 
The  centre  bears  evident  traces  of  Saxon  architecture,  and  is 
as  solid  as  ponderous  stone  and  old  English  oak  can  make  it. 
Like  all  the  relics  of  that  style,  it  is  full  of  obscure  passages, 
intricate  mazes,  and  dusky  chambers  ;  and  though  these  have 
been  partially  lighted  up  in  modern  days,  yet  there  are  many 
places  where  you  must  still  grope  in  the  dark.  Additions 
have  been  made  to  the  original  edifice  from  time  to  time,  and 
great  alterations  have  taken  place  ;  towers  and  battlements 
have  been  erected  during  wars  and  tumults  ;  wings  built  in 
time  of  peace  and  out-houses,  lodges,  and  offices,  run  up  ac- 
cording to  the  whim  or  convenience  of  different  generations, 
until  it  has  become  one  of  the  most  spacious,  rambling  tene- 
ments imaginable.  An  entire  wing  is  taken  up  with  the  family 
chapel  3  a  reverend  pile,  that  must  once  have  been  exceedingly 


3IO  IVORIES  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

sumptuous,  and,  indeed,  in  spite  of  having  been  altered  ancf 
simplified  at  various  periods,  h^o  still  a  look  oi  solcnm  re- 
ligious pomp.  Its  wallr.  within  are  storied  with  the  mon- 
uments of  John's  ance-^tors  j  and  it  is  snugly  fitted  up  with 
soft  cushions  and  \'.ell-lined  chairs,  where  such  of  his  family 
as  are  inclined  to  church  services,  may  doze  comfortably  in 
the  discharge  of  their  duties. 

To  keep  u;j  this  chapel,  has  cost  John  much  money- 
but  he  is  staurch  in  his  religion,  and  piqued  in  his  zeal,  from 
the  circumstance  that  many  dissenting  chapels  have  been 
erected  in  his  vicinity,  and  several  of  his  neighbors,  with 
whom  he  has  had  quarrels,  are  strong  Papists. 

To  do  the  duties  of  the  chapel,  he  maintains,  at  a  large 
expense,  a  pious  and  portly  family  chaplain.  He  is  a  most 
learned  and  decorous  personage,  and  a  truly  well-bred  Chris- 
tian, who  always  backs  the  old  gentleman  in  his  opinions,, 
winks  olccreetly  at  his  little  peccadilloes,  rebukes  the  children 
when  refractory,  and  is  of  great  use  in  exhorting  the  tenants 
to  read  their  bibles,  say  their  prayers,  and,  above  all,  to  pay 
their  rents  punctually,  and  without  grumbling. 

The  family  apartments  are  in  a  very  antiquated  taste, 
somewhat  heavy,  and  often  inconvenient,  but  full  of  the  solemn 
magnificence  of  former  times  ;  fitted  up  with  rich,  though 
faded  tapestry,  unwieldy  furniture,  and  loads  of  massy  gor- 
geous old  plate.  The  vast  fire-places,  ample  kitchens,  ex- 
tensive cellars,  and  sumptuous  banqueting  halls, — all  speak 
of  the  roaring  hospitality  of  days  of  yore,  of  which  the  modem 
festivity  at  the  manor-house  is  but  a  shadow.  There  are, 
however,  complete  suites  of  rooms  apparently  deserted  and 
time-worn  ;  and  towers  and  turrets  that  are  tottering  to  decay ; 
so  that  in  high  winds  there  is  danger  of  their  tumbling  about 
the  ears  of  the  household. 

John  has  frequently  been  advised  to  have  the  old  edifice 
thoroughly  overhauled,  and  to  have  some  of  the  useless  parts 
pulled  down,  and  the  others  strengthened  with  their  materials  ; 
but  the  old  gentleman  always  grows  testy  on  this  subjects 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GEATT.  311 

TT^  \\z\\zc  iz  r.n  e::cc^!or.l  I:cu2C — that  it  is  tight 

apd  weather-proof,  and  not  to  be  shaken  by  tempests — that 
it  has  stood  for  several  hundred  years,  and  therefore  is  not 
likely  to  tumble  down  now — that  as  to  its  being  inconvenient, 
his  family  is  accustomed  to  the  inconveniences,  and  would  not 
be  comfortable  without  them— that  as  to  its  unwieldy  size  and 
irregular  construction,  these  result  from  its  being  the  growth 
of  centuries,  and  being  improved  by  the  wisdom  of  every 
generation — that  an  old  family,  like  his,  requires  a  large  house 
to  dwell  in  ;  new,  upstart  families  may  live  in  modern  cottages- 
and  snug  boxes,  but  an  old  English  family  should  inhabit  an 
old  English  manor-house.  ,If  you  point  out  any  part  of  the 
building  as  superfluous,  he  insists  that  it  is  material  to  the 
strength  or  decoration  of  the  rest,  and  the  harmony  of  the 
whole  ;  and  swears  that  the  parts  are  so  built  into  each  other, 
that  if  you  pull  down  one  you  run  the  risk  of  having  the 
whole  about  your  ears. 

The  secret  of  the  matter  is,  that  John  has  a  great  disposi- 
tion to  protect  and  patronize.  He  thinks  it  indispensable  to 
the  dignity  of  an  ancient  and  honorable  family,  to  be  bounte- 
ous in  its  appointments,  and  to  be  eaten  up  by  dependants ; 
and  so,  partly  from  pride,  and  partly  from  kind-heartedness, 
he  makes  it  a  rule  always  to  give  shelter  and  maintenance  to 
his  superannuated  servants. 

The  consequence  is,  that,  like  many  other  venerable 
family  establishments,  his  manor  is  encumbered  by  old  re- 
tainers whom  he  cannot  run  off,  and  an  old  style  which  he 
cannot  lay  down.  His  mansion  is  like  a  great  hospital  of 
invalids,  and,  with  all  its  magnitude,  is  not  a  whit  too  larj:e: 
for  its  inhabitants.  Not  a  nook  or  corner  but  is  of  use  ia 
housing  some  useless  personage.  Groups  of  veteran  beef- 
eaters, gouty  pensioners,  and  retired  heroes  of  the  buttery 
and  the  larder,  are  seen  lolling  about  its  walls,  crawling  over 
its  lawns,  dozing  under  its  trees,  or  sunning  themselves  upon 
the  benches  at  its  doors.  Every  office  and  out-house  is- 
garrisoned  by  these  supernumeraries  and  their  families ;  for 


3  r  2  WO/^A-S  t)F  WASHING  TON  IR  VING. 

they  are  amazingly  prolific,  rtnd  when  they  die  off,  are  sure  to 
leave  John  a  legacy  of  hungry  mouths  to  be  provided  for. 
A  mattock  cannot  be  struck  against  the  most  mouldering 
tumble-down  tower,  but  out  pops,  from  some  cranny  or  loop- 
hole, the  gray  pate  of  some  superannuated  hanger-on,  who 
has  lived  at  John's  expense  all  his  life,  and  makes  the  most 
grievous  outcry,  at  their  pulling  down  the  roof  from  over  the 
head  of  a  worn-out  servant  of  the  family.  This  is  an  appeal 
that  John's  honest  heart  never  can  withstand  ;  so  that  a  man 
who  has  faithfully  eaten  his  beef  and  pudding  all  his  life,  is 
sure  to  be  rewarded  with  a  pipe  and  tankard  in  his  old  days. 

A  great  part  of  his  park,  also,  is  turned  into  paddocks, 
-where  his  broken-down  chargers  are  turned  loose  to  graze  un- 
disturbed  for  the  remainder  of  their  existence — a  worthy  exam- 
ple of  grateful  recollection,  which  if  some  of  his  neighbors  were 
to  imitate,  would  not  be  to  their  discredit.  Indeed,  it  is  one 
of  his  great  pleasures  to  point  out  these  old  steeds  to  his 
visitors,  to  dwell  on  their  good  qualities,  extol  their  past  ser- 
vices, and  boast,  with  some  little  vain-glory,  of  the  perilous 
adventures  and  hardy  exploits  through  which  they  have  car- 
ried him. 

He  is  given,  however,  to  indulge  his  veneration  for  family 
tisages,  and  family  encumbrances,  to  a  whimsical  extent.  His 
manor  is  infested  by  gangs  of  gypsies;  yet  he  will  not  suffer 
them  to  be  driven  off,  because  they  have  infested  the  place 
time  out  of  mind,  and  been  regular  poachers  upon  every  gener- 
ation of  the  family.  He  will  scarcely  permit  a  dry  branch  to 
be  lopped  from  the  great  trees  that  surround  the  house,  lest 
it  should  molest  the  rooks,  that  have  bred  there  for  centuries. 
Owls  have  taken  possession  of  the  dovecote ;  but  they  are 
hereditary  owls,  and  must  not  be  disturbed.  Swallows  have 
nearly  choked  up  every  chimney  with  their  nests  ;  martins 
build  in  every  frieze  and  cornice  ;  crows  flutter  about  the 
towers,  and  perch  on  ever)''  weather-cock ;  and  old  gray-headed 
Tats  may  be  seen  in  every  quarter  of  the  house,  running  in 
and  out  of  their  holes  undauntedlv  in  broad  daylight.  Ir 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  313. 

short,  John  has  such  a  reverence  for  everything  that  has  been 
long  in  the  family,  that  he  will  not  hear  even  of  abuses  being 
reformed,  because  they  are  good  old  family  abuses. 

All  these  whims  and  habits  have  concurred  wofully  to 
drain  the  old  gentleman's  purse  ;  and  as  he  prides  himself 
on  punctuality  in  money  matters,  and  wishes  to  maintain  his 
credit  in  the  neighborhood,  they  have  caused  him  great  per- 
plexity in  meeting  his  engagements.  This,  too,  has  been  in- 
creased by  the  altercations  and  heartburnings  whiich  are  con- 
tinually taking  place  in  his  family.  His  children  have  been 
brought  up  to  different  callings,  and  are  of  differeot  *vays  of 
thinking ;  and  as  they  have  always  been  allowed  to  speak 
their  minds  freely,  they  do  not  fail  to  exercise  the  privilege 
most  clamorously  in  the  present  posture  of  his  affairs.  Some 
stand  up  for  the  honor  of  the  race,  and  are  clear  that  the  &  \ 
establishment  should  be  kept  up  in  all  its  state,  whateve 
may  be  the  cost ;  others,  who  are  more  prudent  and  consid 
erate,  entreat  the  old  gentleman  to  retrench  his  expenses,  an6.' 
to  put  his  whole  system  of  housekeeping  on  a  more  moderate 
footing.  He  has,  indeed,  at  times,  seemed  inclined  to  listeF 
to  their  opinions,  but  their  wholesome  advice  has  been  com- 
pletely defeated  by  the  obstreperous  conduct  of  one  of  his 
sons.  This  is  a  noisy  rattle-pated  fellow,  of  rather  low  habits^ 
who  neglects  his  business  to  frequent  ale-houses — is  the  orator 
of  village  clubs,  and  a  complete  oracle  among  the  poorest  of 
his  father's  tenants.  No  sooner  does  he  hear  any  of  his 
brothers  mention  reform  or  retrenchment,  than  up  he  jumps,, 
takes  the  words  out  of  their  mouths,  and  roars  out  for  an  over- 
turn. When  his  tongue  is  once  going,  nothing  can  stop  it. 
He  rants  about  the  room  ;  hectors  the  old  man  about  his 
spendthrift  practices  ;  ridicules  his  tastes  and  pursuits  ;  insists 
that  he  shall  turn  the  old  servants  out  of  doors  ;  give  the 
broken  down  horses  to  the  hounds  ;  send  the  fat  chaplain 
packing  and  take  a  field-preacher  in  his  place — nay,  that  the 
whole  family  mansion  shall  be  levelled  with  the  ground,  and 
a  plain  one  of  brick  and  mortar  built  in  its  place.    He  raite 


314.  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 

at  every  social  entertainment  and  family  festivity,  and  skulks 
away  growling  to  the  ale-house  whenever  an  equipage  drives 
up  to  the  door.  Though  constantly  complaining  of  the  empti- 
ness of  his  purse,  yet  he  scruples  not  to  spend  all  his  pocket- 
money  in  these  tavern  convocations,  and  even  runs  up  scores 
for  the  liquor  over  which  he  preaches  about  his  father's  extrav- 
agance. 

It  may  readily  be  im.agined  how  little  such  thwarting  agrees 
with  the  old  cavalier's  fiery  temperament.  He  has  become  so 
irritable,  from  repeated  crossings,  that  the  mere  mention  of 
retrenchment  or  reform  is  a  signal  for  a  brawl  between  him 
and  the  tavern  oracle.  As  the  latter  is  too  sturdy  and  refrac- 
tory for  paternal  discipline,  having  grown  out  of  all  fear  of 
the  cudgel,  they  have  frequent  scenes  of  wordy  warfare,  which 
at  times  run  so  high,  that  John  is  fain  to  call  in  the  aid  of  his 
son  Tom.,  an  officer  who  has  served  abroad,  but  is  at  present 
living  at  home,  on  half-pay.  This  last  is  sure  to  stand  by  the 
old  gentleman,  right  or  wrong  ;  likes  nothing  so  much  as  a 
racketing  roistering  life  ;  and  is  ready,  at  a  wink  or  nod,  to 
out  sabre,  and  flourish  it  over  the  orator's  head,  if  he  dares 
to  array  himself  against  paternal  authority. 

These  family  dissensions,  as  usual,  have  got  abroad,  and 
are  rare  food  for  scandal  in  John's  neighborhood.  People 
begin  to  look  wise,  and  shake  their  heads,  whenever  his  affairs 
are  mentioned.  They  all  "  hope  that  matters  are  not  so  bad 
with  him  as  represented ;  but  when  a  man's  own  children  be- 
{gin  to  rail  at  his  extravagance,  things  must  be  badly  managed. 
They  understand  he  is  mortgaged  over  head  and  ears,  and 
is  continually  dabbling  with  money-lenders.  He  is  certainly 
an  open-handed  old  gentleman,  but  they  fear  he  has  lived  too 
fast ;  indeed,  they  never  knew  any  good  come  of  this  fondness 
for  hunting,  racing,  revelling,  and  prize-fighting.  In  short, 
Mr.  Bull's  estate  is  a  very  fine  one,  and  has  been  in  the  family 
a  long  while  ;  but  for  all  that,  they  have  known  many  finer 
estates  come  to  the  hammer." 

What  is  worst  of  all,  is  the  effect  whiGh  these  pecuniary 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  315 

embarrassments  and  domestic  feuds  have  had  on  the  poor 
man  himself.  Instead  of  that  jolly  round  corporation,  and 
smug  rosy  face,  which  he  used  to  present,  he  has  of  late  be- 
come as  shrivelled  and  shrunk  as  a  frostbitten  apple.  His 
scarlet  gold-laced  waistcoat,  which  bellied  out  so  bravely  ia 
those  prosperous  days  when  he  sailed  before  the  wind,  now 
hangs  loosely  about  him  like  a  mainsail  in  a  calm.  His. 
leather  breeches  are  all  in  folds  and  wrinkles  ;  and  apparently 
have  much  ado  to  hold  up  the  boots  that  yawn  on  both  sides 
of  his  once  sturdy  legs. 

Instead  of  strutting  about,  as  formerly,  with  his  three- 
cornered  hat  on  one  side  ;  flourishing  his  cudgel,  and  bringing 
it  down  every  moment  with  a  hearty  thump  upon  the  ground 
looking  every  one  sturdily  in  the  face,  and  trolling  out  a  stave 
Df  a  catch  or  a  drinking  song  ;  he  now  goes  about  whistling 
thoughtfully  to  himself,  with  his  head  drooping  down,  his 
cudgel  tucked  under  his  arm,  and  his  hands  thrust  to  the 
bottom  of  his  breeches  pockets,  which  are  evidently  empty. 

Such  is  the  plight  of  honest  John  Bull  at  present ;  yet  for 
all  this,  the  old  fellow's  spirit  is  as  tall  and  as  gallant  as  ever. 
If  you  drop  the  least  expression  of  sympathy  or  concern,  he 
takes  fire  in  an  instant ;  swears  that  he  is  the  richest  and 
stoutest  fellow  in  the  country ;  talks  of  laying  out  large  sums 
to  adorn  his  house  or  to  buy  another  estate  ;  and,  wath  a  val- 
iant swagger  and  grasping  of  his  cudgel,  longs  exceedingly  to 
have  another  bout  at  quarterstaff. 

Though  there  may  be  something  rather  whimsical  in  all 
this,  yet  I  confess  I  cannot  look  upon  John's  situation,  with- 
out strong  feelings  of  interest.  With  all  his  odd  humors  and 
obstinate  prejudices,  he  is  a  sterling-hearted  old  blade.  He- 
may  not  be  so  wonderfully  fine  a  fellow  as  he  thinks  himself,, 
but  he  is  at  least  twice  as  good  as  his  neighbors  represent 
him.  His  virtues  are  all  his  own  ;  ail  plain,  homebred,  and 
unaffected.  His  very  faults  smack  of  the  raciness  of  his  good 
qualities.  His  extravagance  savors  of  his  generosity  ;  his  quar- 
relsomeness, of  Kis  courage  ;  his  credulity,  of  his  open  faith;: 


3i6  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

his  vanity,  of  his  pride  ;  and  his  bUintness,  of  his  sincerity. 
They  are  all  the  redundancies  of  a  rich  and  liberal  character. 
He  is  like  his  own  oak  ;  rough  without,  but  sound  and  solid 
within;  whose  bark  abounds  with  excrescences  in  proportion 
to  the  growth  and  grandeur  of  the  timber  ;  and  whose  branches 
make  a  fearful  groaning  and  murmuring  in  the  least  storm, 
from  their  very  magnitude  and  luxuriance.  There  is  some- 
thing, too,  in  the  appearance  of  his  old  family  mansion,  that 
is  extremely  poetical  and  picturesque  :  and,  as  long  as  it  can 
be  rendered  comfortably  habitable,  I  should  almost  tremble 
to  see  it  meddled  with  during  the  present  conflict  of  tastes 
and  opinions.  Some  of  his  advisers  are  no  doubt  good 
architects,  that  might  be  of  service  ;  but  many,  I  fear,  are 
mere  levellers,  who,  when  they  had  once  got  to  work  with 
their  mattocks  on  the  venerable  edifice,  would  never  stop 
until  they  had  brought  it  to  the  ground,  and  perhaps  buried 
themselves  among  the  ruins.  All  that  I  wish,  is,  that  John's 
present  troubles  may  teach  him  more  prudence  in  future ; 
that  he  may  cease  to  distress  his  mind  about  other  people's 
affairs ;  that  he  may  give  up  the  fruitless  attempt  to  promote 
the  good  of  his  neighbors,  and  the  peace  and  happiness  of  the 
world,  by  dint  of  the  cudgel ;  that  he  may  remain  quietly  at 
home  ;  gradually  get  his  house  into  repair ;  cultivate  his  rich 
estate  according  to  his  fancy:  husband  his  income— if  he 
thinks  (Proper  ;  bring  his  unruly  children  into  order— if  he  can  ; 
renew  the  jovial  scenes  of  ancient  prosperity  ;  and  long  enjoy, 
on  his  paternal  lands,  a  green,  an  honorable,  and  a  rnerry 
old  age. 


SKETCH'-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GEJSTT. 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE. 

May  no  wolf  howle  :  no  screech-owle  stir 

A  wing  about  thy  sepulchre  ! 

No  boysterous  winds  or  stormes  come  hither. 

To  starve  or  wither 
Thy  soft  sweet  earth  !  but,  like  a  spring, 
Love  keep  it  ever  flourishing. 

Herrick. 

In  the  course  of  an  excursion  through  one  of  the  remote^ 
counties  of  England,  I  had  struck  into  one  of  those  cross- 
roads that  lead  through  the  more  secluded  parts  of  the  coun- 
try, and  stopped  one  afternoon  at  a  village,  the  situation  of 
which  was  beautifully  rural  and  retired.  There  was  an  air  of 
primitive  simplicity  about  its  inhabitants,  not  to  be  found  in 
the  villages  which  lie  on  the  great  coach-roads.  I  determined 
to  pass  the  night  there,  and  having  taken  an  early  dinner, 
strolled  out  to  enjoy  the  neighboring  scenery. 

My  ramble,  as  is  usually  the  case  with  travellers,  soon  led 
me  to  the  church,  which  stood  at  a  little  distance  from  the 
village.  Indeed,  it  was  an  object  of  some  curiosity,  its  old 
tower  being  completely  overrun  with  ivy,  so  that  only  here 
and  there  a  jutting  buttress,  an  angle  of  gray  wall,  or  a  fan- 
tastically carved  ornament,  peered  through  the  verdant  cov- 
ering. It  was  a  lovely  evening.  The  early  part  of  the  day 
had  been  dark  and  showery,  but  in  the  afternoon  it  had  cleared 
up ;  and  though  sullen  clouds  still  hung  overhead,  yet  there 
was  a  broad  tract  of  golden  sky  in  the  w^est,  from  which  the 
setting  sun  gleamed  through  the  dripping  leaves,  and  lit  up- 
all  nature  into  a  melancholy  smik.    It  seemed  like  the  part- 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


-gYiour  ot  a  good  Christian,  smiling  on  the  sins  and  sorrows 
of  the  world,  and  giving,  in  the  serenity  of  his  decline,  an 
assurance  that  he  will  rise  again  in  glory. 

I  had  seated  myself  on  a  half-sunken  tombstone,  and  was 
musing,  as  one  is  apt  to  do  at  this  sober-thoughted  hour,  on 
past  scenes,  and  early  friends — on  those  who  were  distant,  and 
those  who  were  dead — and  indulging  in  that  kind  of  melan- 
choly fancying  which  has  in  it  something  sweeter  even  than 
pleasure.  Every  now  and  then,  the  stroke  of  a  bell  from  the 
neighboring  tower  fell  on  my  ear  ;  its  tones  were  in  unison 
with  the  scene,  and  instead  of  jarring,  chimed  i^  with  my  feel- 
ings ;  and  it  w^as  some  time  before  1  recollected,  that  it  must 
be  tolling  the  knell  of  some  new  tenant  of  the  tomb. 

Presently  I  saw  a  funeral  train  moving  across  the  village 
green ;  it  wound  slowly  along  a  lane ;  was  lost,  and  re-ap- 
peared through  the  breaks  of  the  hedges,  until  it  passed  the 
place  where  I  was  sitting.  The  pall  was  supported  by  young- 
girls,  dressed  in  white  ;  and  another,  about  the  age  of  seven- 
teen, walked  before,  bearing  a  chaplet  of  white  flowers  ;  a  token 
that  the  deceased  was  a  young  and  unmarried  female.  The 
corpse  was  followed  by  the  parents.  They  were  a  venerable 
couple,  of  the  better  order  of  peasantry.  The  father  seemed 
to  repress  his  feelings  ;  but  his  fixed  eye,  contracted  brow, 
and  deeply-furrowed  face,  showed  the  struggle  that  was  pass- 
ing within.  His  wife  hung  on  his  arm,  and  wept  aloud  with 
the  convulsive  bursts  of  a  mother's  sorrow. 

I  followed  the  funeral  into  the  church.  The  bier  was 
placed  in  the  centre  aisle,  and  the  chaplet  of  white  flowers, 
with  a  pair  of  white  gloves,  were  hung  over  the  seat  which  the 
deceased  had  occupied. 

Every  one  knows  the  soul-subduing  pathos  of  the  funeral 
service  :  for  who  is  so  fortunate  as  never  to  have  followed 
some  one  he  has  loved  to  the  tomb  ?  but  when  performed  over 
the  remains  of  innocence  and  beauty,  thus  laid  low  in  the 
bloom  of  existence — what  can  be  more  affecting  ?  At  that 
simple,  but  most  solemn  consignment  of  the  body  to  the  grave 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  31^ 

Earth  to  earth — ashes  to  ashes — dust  to  dust  1 "  the  teara 
*-f  the  youthful  companions  of  the  deceased  flowed  unre 
strained.  The  father  still  seemed  to  struggle  with  his  feelings 
rind  to  comfort  himself  with  the  assurance,  that  the  dead  are 
1')lessed  v/hich  die  in  the  Lord  ;  but  the  mother  only  thought 
of  her  child  as  a  flower  of  the  field,  cut  down  and  withered  in 
the  midst  of  its  sweetness :  she  was  like  Rachel,  "  mourning 
over  her  children,  and  would  not  be  comforted." 

On  returning  to  the  inn,  I  learnt  the  whole  story  of  the 
^ieceased.  It  was  a  simple  one,  and  such  as  has  often  been 
told.  She  had  been  the  beauty  and  pride  of  the  village. 
Her  father  had  once  been  an  opulent  farmer,  but  was  reduced 
in  circumstances.  This  was  an  only  child,  and  brought  up 
entirely  at  home,  in  the  simplicity  of  rural  life.  She  had  been 
the  pupil  of  the  village  pastor,  the  favorite  lamb  of  his  little 
flock.  The  good  man  watched  over  education  with  paternal 
care ;  it  wa§  limited,  and  suitable  to  the  sphere  in  which  she 
was  to  move ;  for  he  only  sought  to  make  her  an  ornament  to 
her  station  in  life,  not  to  raise  her  above  it.  The  tenderness 
and  indulgence  of  her  parents,  and  the  exemption  from  all 
ordinary  occupations,  had  fostered  a  natural  grace  and  delicacy 
of  character  that  accorded  with  the  fragile  loveliness  of  her 
form.  She  appeared  like  some  tender  plant  of  the  garden, 
blooming  accidentally  amid  the  hardier  natives  of  the  fields. 

The  superiority  of  her  charms  was  felt  and  acknowledged 
by  her  companions,  but  without  envy  ;  for  it  was  surpassed 
by  the  unassuming  gentleness  and  winning  kindness  of  her 
manners.    It  might  be  truly  said  of  her, — 

**This  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass,  that  ever 
Ran  on  the  greensward  :  nothing  she  does  or  seems. 
But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  hci?self ; 
Too  noble  for  this  place.'* 

The  village  was  one  of  those  sequestered  spots,  which 
still  retains  some  vestiges  of  old  Eng/ish  customs.  It  had  its 
srural  festivals  and  holiday  pastimes,  and  still  kept  up  some 


320 


'  WOkKS  Of  'WASHlNGrOiY  IRVI.^G, 


faint  observ?  nee  of  the  once  popular  rites  of  May,  Thesc«- 
ixideed,  had  been  promoted  by  its  present  pastor  ;  who  was  a 
lover  of  old  customs,  and  one  of  those  simple  Christians  that 
think  their  mission  fulfilled  by  promoting  joy  on  earth  and 
good  will  among  mankind.  Under  his  auspices  the  May-pole 
stood  from  year  to  year  in  the  centre  of  the  village  green  ;  on 
May-day  it  was  decorated  with  garlands  and  streamers  ;  and 
a  queen  or  the  lady  of  the  May  was  appointed,  as  in  former 
times,  to  preside  at  the  sports,  and  distribute  the  prizes  and 
rewards.  The  picturesque  situation  of  the  village,  and  the: 
fancifulness  of  its  rustic  fetes,  would  often  attract  the  notice 
of  casual  visitors.  Among  these,  on  one  May-day,  was  a 
young  officer,  whose  regiment  had  been  recently  quartered  in 
the  neighborhood.  He  was  charmed  with  the  native  taste  that 
pervaded  this  village  pageant ;  but,  above  all,  with  the  dawn- 
ing loveliness  of  the  queen  of  May.  It  was  the  village  favor- 
ite, who  was  crowned  with  flowers,  and  blushing  and  smiling 
in  all  the  beautiful  confusion  of  girlish  diffidence  and  delight. 
The  artlessness  of  rural  habits  enabled  him  readily  to  make 
her  acquaintance  ;  he  gradually  won  his  way  into  her  intimacy  ; 
and  paid  his  court  to  her  in  that  unthinking  way  in  which 
young  officers  are  too  apt  to  trifle  with  rustic  simplicity. 

There  was  nothing  in  his  advances  to  startle  or  alarm* 
He  never  even  talked  of  love ;  but  there  are  modes  of  making 
it,  more  eloquent  than  language,  and  which  convey  it  subtilely 
and  irresistibly  to  the  heart.  The  beam  of  the  eye,  the  tone 
of  the  voice,  the  thousand  tendernesses  which  emanate  from 
every  word,  and  look,  and  action — these  form  the  true  elo- 
quence of  love,  and  can  always  be  felt  and  understood,  but 
never  described.  Can  we  wonder  that  they  should  readily 
win  a  heart,  young,  guileless,  and  susceptible  ?  As  to  her, 
she  loved  almost  unconsciously  ;  she  scarcely  inquired  what, 
was  the  growing  passion  that  was  absorbing  every  thought, 
and  feeling,  or  w^hat  were  to  be  its  consequences.  She,  in- 
deed, looked  not  to  the  future.  When  present,  his  looks  and' 
words  occupied  her  whole  attention  ;  when  absent,  she  thought 


SKETCI.^^WOK  OF  GEOFPREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  ^21 

but  of  what  hai  passed  at  their  recent  interview.  She  would 
wander  with  him  through  the  green  lanes  and  rural  scenes  ot 
the  vicinity.  He  taught  her  to  see  new  beauties  in  nature  ; 
he  talked  in  the  language  of  polite  and  cultivated  life,  and 
breathed  into  her  ear  the  witcheries  of  romance  and  poetry. 

Perhaps  there  could  not  have  been  a  passion,  between  the 
sexes,  more  pure  than  this  innocent  girl's.  The  gallant  figure 
of  her  youthful  admirer,  and  the  splendor  of  his  military  at- 
tire, might  at  first  have  charmed  her  eye  ;  but  it  was  not  these 
that  had  captivated  her  heart.  Her  attachment  had  something 
in  it  of  idolatry ;  she  looked  up  to  him  as  to  a  being  of  a 
superior  order.  She  felt  in  his  society  the  enthusiasm  of  a 
mind  naturally  delicate  and  poetical,  and  now  first  awakened 
to  a  keen  perception  of  the  beautiful  and  grand.  Of  the  sor- 
did distinctions  of  rank  and  fortune,  she  thought  nothing ;  it 
was  the  difference  of  intellect,  of  demeanor,  of  m.anners,  from 
those  of  the  rustic  society  to  which  she  had  been  accustomed, 
that  elevated  him  in  her  opinion.  She  would  listen  to  him 
with  charmed  ear  and  downcast  look  of  mute  delight,  and  her 
cheek  would  mantle  with  enthusiasm ;  or  if  ever  she  ventured 
a  shy  glance  of  timid  admiration,  it  was  as  quickly  withdrawn, 
and  she  would  sigh  and  blush  at  the  idea  of  her  comparative 
unworthiness. 

Her  lover  was  equally  impassioned  ;  but  his  passion  was 
mingled  with  feelings  of  a  coarser  nature.  He  had  begun 
the  connection  in  levity ;  for  he  had  often  heard  his  brother 
officers  boast  of  their  village  conquests,  and  thought  some 
triumph  of  the  kind  necessary  to  his  reputation  as  a  man  of 
spirit.  But  he  w^as  too  full  of  youthful  fervor.  His  heart 
had  not  yet  been  rendered  sufficiently  cold  and  selfish  by  a 
wandering  and  a  dissipated  life  :  it  caught  fire  from  the  very 
fiame  it  sought  to  kindle ;  and  before  he  was  aware  of  the 
nature  of  his  situation,  he  became  really  in  love. 

What  was  he  to  do  ?  There  were  the  old  obstacles  which 
so  incessantly  occur  in  these  heedless  attachments.  His 
^ank  in  life — the  prejudices  of  titled  connections — his  depen* 


^2  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVIN^. 

dence  upon  a  proud  and  unyielding  father — ail  forbad  him  t<» 
think  of  matrimony  : — but  when  he  looked  down  upon  this 
innocent  being,  so  tender  and  confiding,  there  was  a  purity 
vn  her  manners,  a  blamelessness  in  her  life,  and  a  bewitching 
modesty  in  her  looks,  that  awed  down  every  licentious  feeling. 
In  vain  did  he  try  to  fortify  himself,  by  a  thousand  heartless- 
examples  of  men  of  fashion,  and  to  chill  the  glow  of  generous 
sentiment,  with  that  cold  derisive  levity  with  which  he  had 
heard  them  talk  of  female  virtue  ;  whenever  he  came  into 
her  presence,  she  was  still  surrounded  by  that  mysterious,, 
but  impassive  charm  of  virgin  purity,  in  whose  hallowed 
sphere  no  guilty  thought  can  live. 

The  sudden  arrival  of  orders  for  the  regiment  to  repair  to 
the  continent,  completed  the  confusion  of  his  mind.  He 
remained  for  a  short  time  in  a  state  of  the  most  painful  irres- 
olution ;  he  hesitated  to  communicate  the  tidings,  until  the  day 
for  marching  was  at  hand ;  when  he  gave  her  the  inteJligence 
in  the  course  of  an  evening  ramble. 

The  idea  of  parting  had  never  befoYe  occurred  to  her. 
It  broke  in  at  once  upon  her  dream  of  felicity  ;  she  looked, 
upon  it  as  a  sudden  and  insurmountable  evil,  and  wept  with 
the  guileless  simplicity  of  a  child.  He  drew  her  to  his 
bosom  and  kissed  the  tears  from  her  soft  cheek,  nor  did  he 
meet  with  a  repulse,  for  there  are  moments  of  mingled  sorrow 
and  tenderness,  which  hallow  the  caresses  of  affection.  He- 
was  naturally  impetuous,  and  the  sight  of  beauty  apparently 
yielding  in  his  arms,  the  confidence  of  his  power  over  her, 
and  the  dread  of  losing  her  forever,  all  conspired  to  over- 
whelm his  better  feelings — he  ventured  to  propose  that  she 
should  leave  her  home,  and  be  the  companion  of  his  fortunes. 

He  was  quite  a  novice  in  seduction,  and  blushed  and  fal- 
tered at  his  own  baseness  ;  but,  so  innocent  of  mind  was  his 
intended  victim,  that  she  was  at  first  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  his 
meaning  ; — and  why  she  should  leave  her  native  village,  and 
the  humble  roof  of  her  parents.  When  at  last  the  nature  of 
his  proposals  flashed  upon  her  pure  mind,  the  effect  was 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  323 

withering.  She  did  not  weep — she  did  not  break  forth  into 
reproaches — she  said  not  a  word — but  she  shrunk  back  aghast 
as  from  a  viper,  gave  him  a  look  of  anguish  that  pierced  tc 
his  very  soul,  and  clasping  her  hands  in  agony,  fled,  as  if  foi 
refu2:e,  to  her  father's  cottage. 

The  officer  retired,  confounded,  humiliated,  and  repentant 
It  is  uncertain  v/hat  might  have  been  the  result  of  the  con- 
flict of  his  feelings,  had  not  his  thoughts  been  diverted  by 
the  bustle  of  departure.  New  scenes,  new  pleasures,  and  new 
companions,  soon  dissipated  his  self-reproach,  and  stifled  his 
tenderness.  Yet,  amidst  the  stir  of  camps,  the  revelries  of 
garrisons,  the  array  of  armies,  and  even  the  din  of  battles,  his 
thoughts  would  sometimes  steal  back  to  the  scenes  of  rural 
quiet  and  village  simplicity — the  white  cottage — the  foot- 
path along  the  silver  brook  and  up  the  hawthorn  hedge,  and 
the  little  village  maid  loitering  along  it,  leaning  on  his  arm 
and  listening  to  him  with  eyes  beaming  with  unconscious 
affection. 

The  shock  which  the  poor  girl  had  receiv^ed,  in  the  de- 
struction of  all  her  ideal  world,  had  indeed  been  cruel.  Paint- 
ings and  hysterics  had  at  first  shaken  her  tender  fram.e,  and 
were  succeeded  by  a  settled  and  pining  melancholy.  She 
had  beheld  from  her  window  the  march  of  the  departing 
troops.  She  had  seen  her  faithless  lover  borne  off,  as  if  in 
triumph,  amidst  the  sound  of  drum  and  trumpet,  and  the 
pomp  of  arms.  She  strained  a  last  aching  gaze  after  him,  as 
the  morning  sun  glittered  about  his  figure,  and  his  plume  waved 
in  the  breeze  ;  he  passed  away  like  a  bright  vision  from  her 
sight,  and  left  her  all  in  darkness. 

It  would  be  trite  to  dwell  on  the  particulars  of  her  after- 
story.  It  was,  like  other  tales  of  love,  melancholy.  She 
avoided  society,  and  v;andered  out  alone  in  the  wall;'^  she 
had  most  frequented  with  her  lover.  She  sought,  like  the 
stricken  deer,  to  weep  in  silence  and  loneliness,  and  brood 
over  the  barbed  sorrow  that  rankled  in  her  soul.  Sometimes 
:she  would  be  seen  late  of  an  evening  sitting  in  the  porch  o£ 


324 


WeRKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


the  village  church  ;  and  the  milk-maids,  returning  from  the 
fieldS;  would  now  and  then  overhear  her  singing  some  plain.- 
tive  ditty  in  the  hawthorn  walk.  She  became  fervent  in  her 
devotions  at  church  ;  and  as  the  old  people  saw  her  approach^ 
so  wasted  away,  yet  with  a  hectic  bloom,  and  that  hallowed 
air  which  melancholy  diffuses  round  the  form,  they  would 
make  way  for  her,  as  for  something  spiritual,  and,  looking 
after  her,  would  shake  their  heads  in  gloomy  foreboding. 

She  felt  a  conviction  that  she  was  hastening  to  the  tomb,, 
but  looked  forward  to  it  as  a  place  of  rest.    The  silver  cord 
that  had  bound  her  to  existence  was  loosed,  and  there  seemed 
to  be  no  more  pleasure  under  the  sun.    If  ever  her  gentle 
bosom  had  entertained  resentment  against  her  lover,  it  was 
extinguished.    She  was  incapable  of  angry  passions,  and  in 
a  moment  of  saddened  tenderness  she  penned  him  a  farewell 
letter.    It  was  couched  in  the  simplest  language,  but  touching, 
from  its  very  simplicity.    She  told  him  that  she  was  dying, 
and  did  not  conceal  from  him  that  his  conduct  was  the  cause. 
She  even  depicted  the  sufferings  which  she  had  experienced  ;^ 
but  concluded  with  saying,  that  she  could  not  die  m  peace, 
until  she  had  sent  him  her  forgiveness  and  her  blessing. 

By  degrees  her  strength  declined,  and  she  could  no  longer- 
leave  the  cottage.  She  could  only  totter  to  the  window^, 
where,  propped  up  in  her  chair,  it  was  her  enjoyment  to  sit 
all  day  and  look  out  upon  the  landscape.  Still  she  uttered 
no  complaint,  nor  imparted  to  anyone  the  malady  that  was- 
preying  on  her  heart.  She  never  even  mentioned  her  lover's 
name  ;  but  would  lay  her  head  on  her  mother's  bosom  and 
weep  in  silence.  Her  poor  parents  hung,  in  mute  anxiety,  r 
over  this  fading  blossom  of  their  hopes,  still  flattering  them- 
selves that  it  might  again  revive  to  freshness,  and  that  the 
bright  unearthly  bloom  which  sometimes  flushed  her  cheek, 
might  be  the  promise  of  returning  health. 

In  this  way  she  was  seated  between  them  one  Sunday 
afternoon ;  her  hands  were  clasped  in  theirs,  the  lattice  was 
thrown  ©pen,  and  the  soft  air  that  stole  in  brought  with  it 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  325 

the  fragrance  of  the  clustering  honeysuckle,  which  her  own 
hands  had  trained  round  the  window. 

Her  father  had  just  been  reading  a  chapter  in  the  Bible ; 
it  spoke  of  the  vanity  of  worldly  things,  and  the  joys  of 
heaven  ;  it  seemed  to  have  diffused  comfort  and  serenity 
through  her  bosom.  Her  eye  w^as  fixed  on  the  distant  vil- 
lage church — the  bell  had  tolled  for  the  evening  service — 
the  last  villager  was  lagging  into  the  porch — and  everything 
had  sunk  into  that  hallowed  stillness  peculiar  to  the  day  of 
rest.  Her  parents  were  gazing,  on  her  with  yearning  hearts. 
Sickness  and  sorrow,  w^hich  pass  so  roughly  over  some  faces, 
had  given  to  hers  the  expression  of  a  seraph's.  A  tear  trem- 
bled in  her  soft  blue  eye. — Was  she  thinking  of  her  faithless 
lover? — or  were  her  thoughts  wandering  to  that  distant 
churchyard,  into  whose  bosom  she  might  soon  be  gathered.^ 

Suddenly  the  clang  of  hoofs  was  heard — a  horsemaa 
galloped  to  the  cottage — he  dismounted  before  the  window — 
the  poor  girl  gave  a  faint  exclamation,  and  sunk  back  in  her 
chair  : — it  was  her  repentant  lover  !  He  rushed  into  the  house, 
and  flew  to  clasp  her  to  his  bosom  ;  but  her  wasted  form — her 
death-like  countenance — so  wan,  yet  so  lovely  in  its  desolation 
— smote  him  to  the  soul,  and  he  threw  himself  in  an  agony  at 
her  feet.  She  was  too  faint  to  rise — she  attempted  to  extend 
her  trembling  hand — her  lips  moved  as  if  she  spoke,  but  no 
-word  was  articulated — she  looked  down  upon  him  with  a  smile 
of  unutterable  tenderness,  and  closed  her  eyes  forever ! 

Such  are  the  particulars  which  I  gathered  of  this  village 
story.  They  are  but  scanty,  and  I  am  conscious  have  but 
little  novelty  to  recommend  them.  In  the  present  rage  also  for 
strange  incident  and  high-seasoned  narrative,  they  may  appear 
trite  and  insignificant,  but  they  interested  me  strongly  at  the 
time  ;  and,  taken  in  connection  with  the  affecting  ceremony 
which  I  had  just  witnessed,  left  a  deeper  impression  on  my 
mind  than  many  circumstances  of  a  more  striking  nature.  I 
have  passed  through  the  place  since,  and  visited  the  church, 
again  from  a  better  motive  than  mere  curiosity.    It  was  a 


326  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

wintry  evening  ;  the  trees  were  stripped  of  their  foliage  ;  the 
churchyard  looked  naked  and  mournful,  and  the  wind  rustled 
coldly  through  the  o;rass.  Evergreens,  however,  had  been 
planted  about  the  grave  of  the  village  favorite,  and  osiers 
were  bent  over  it  to  keep  the  turf  uninjured.  The  church 
door  was  open,  and  I  stepped  in. — There  hung  the  chaplet  of 
flowers  and  the  gloves,  as  on  the  day  of  the  funeral  :  the 
flowers  were  withered,  it  is  true,  but  care  seemed  to  have  been 
taken  that  no  dust  should  soil  their  whiteness.  I  have  seen^ 
many  monuments,  where  art  has  exhausted  its  powers  to  awaken^ 
the  sympathy  of  the  spectator  ;  but  I  have  met  with  none 
that  spoke  more  touchingly  to  my  heart,  than  this  simple,  but 
delicate  memento  of  departed  innocence. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT. 


THE  ANGLER. 

This  day  dame  Nature  seem'd  in  love. 
The  liistv  sap  began  to  move,  . 
Fresh  juice  did  stir  th'  embracing  vines, 
A. id  birds  had  drawn  their  valentines. 
•   The  jealous  trout  that  low  did  lie, 
Rose  at  a  well  dissembled  dy. 
There  stood  my  friend,  with  patient  skill. 
Attending  ^^^f  his  trembling  quill. 

Sir  H.  WoTTONe 

It  is  said  that  many  an  unlucky  urchin  is  induced  to  run 
away  from  his  family,  and  betake  himself  to  seafaring  life, 
from  reading  the  history  of  Robinson  Crusoe  ;  and  I  suspect 
tliat,  in  like  manner,  many  of  those  worthy  gentlemen,  who 
are  given  to  haunt  the  sides  of  pastoral  streams  with  angle- 
rods  in  hand,  may  trace  the  origin  of  their  passion  to  the 
seductive  pages  of  honest  Izaak  Walton.  I  recollect  studying 
his  Complete  Angler  several  years  since,  in  company  with 
a  knot  of  friends  in  America,  and,  moreover,  that  we  were  all 
completely  bitten  with  the  angling  mania.  It  was  early  in  the 
year  ;  but  as  soon  as  the  weather  was  auspicious,  and  that  the 
spring  began  to  melt  into  the  verge  of  summer,  we  took  rod 
in  hand,  and  sallied  into  the  country,  as  stark  mad  as  was  ever 
Don  Quixote  from  reading  books  of  chivalry. 

One  of  our  party  had  equalled  the  Don  in  the  fulness  of 
his  equipments  ;  being  attired  cap  a-pie  for  the  enterprise. 
He  wore  a  broad-skirted  fustian  coat  perplexed  with  half  a 
hundred  pockets  ;  a  pair  of  stout  shoes,  and  leathern  gaiters  ; 
a  basket  slung  on  one  side  for  fish  ;  a  patent  rod  ;  a  landing 
net,  and  a  score  of  other  inconveniences  only  to  be  found  in 


328  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON:  TRVINft. 

the  true  angler's  armory.  Thus  Harnessed  for  tne  field,  he 
was  as  great  a  matter  of  stare  and  wonderment  among  the  coun- 
try folk,  who  had  never  seen  a  regular  angler,  as  was  the  steel- 
clad  hero  of  La  Mancha  among  the  goatherds  of  the  Sierra 
Morena. 

Our  first  essay  was  alonj  a  niountaui  brook,  among  the 
highlands  of  the  Hudson — a  most  unfortunate  place  for  the 
execution  of  those  piscatory  tactics  which  h.ad  bcc:i  invented 
along  the  velvet  margins  of  quiet  EngHsh  rivulcis.  It  was 
one  of  those  wdld  streams  that  lavish,  amonj  oi  r  romantic 
solitudes,  unheeded  beauties,  enough  to  fill  the  :  .,e:c!i  book 
of  a  hunter  of  the  picturesque.  Sometimes  it  v.ouLl  leap 
down  rocky  shelves,  making  small  cascades,  over  wliich  the 
trees  threw  their  broad  balancing  sprays  ;  and  long  nameless 
weeds  hung  in  fringes  from  the  impending  banks,  dripping 
with  diamond  drops.  Sometimes  it  would  brawl  and  fret 
along  a  ravine  in  the  matted  shade  of  a  forest,  filling  it  with 
murmurs ;  and  after  this  termagant  career,  would  steal  forth 
into  open  day  with  the  most  placid  demure  face  imaginable  ; 
as  I  have  seen  some  pestilent  shrew  of  a  housewife,  after 
filling  her  home  with  uproar  and  ill-humor,  come  dimpling  out 
of  doors,  swimming,  and  curtseying  and  smiling  upon  all  the 
world. 

How  smoothly  would  this  vagrant  brook  glide,  at  such 
times,  through  some  bosom  of  green  meadow  land,  among  the 
mountains ;  where  the  quiet  was  only  mterrupted  by  the  oc- 
casional tinkling  of  a  bell  from  the  lazy  cattle  among  the 
clover,  or  the  sound  of  a  wood-cutter's  axe  from  the  neighbor- 
ing forest ! 

For  my  part,  I  was  always  a  bungler  at  all  kinds  of  sport 
that  required  either  patience  or  ^adroitness,  and  had  not 
angled  above  half  an  hour,  before  I  had  completely  "  satisfied 
the  sentiment,"  and  convinced  myself  of  the  truth  of  Izaak 
Walton's  opinion,  that  angling  is  something  like  poetry — a 
man  must  be  born  to  it.  I  hooked  myself  instead  of  the  fish  ; 
fiangkd  my  line  in  every  tree ;  lost  my  bait ;  broke  ray  rod : 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  Cr.NT.  32^ 

until  I  gave  up  the  attempt  in  despair,  and  passed  the  day 
under  the  trees,  reading  old  Izaak  ;  satisfied  that  it  was  his 
fascinating  vein  of  honest  simplicity  and  rural  feeling  that  had 
bewitched  me,  and  not  the  passion  for  angling.  !My  compan- 
ions, however,  w^ere  more  persevering  in  their  delusion.  I 
have  them  at  this  moment  before  my  eyes,  stealing  along  the 
border  of  the  brook,  where  it  lay  open  to  the  day,  or  was 
merely  fringed  by  shrubs  and  bushes.  I  see  the  bittern  rising 
with  hollow  scream,  as  they  break  in  upon  his  rarely-invaded 
haunt ;  the  kingfisher  watching  them  suspiciously  from  his 
dry  tree  that  overhangs  the  deep  black  mill-pond,  in  the 
gorge  of  the  hills  ;  the  tortoise  letting  himself  slip  sideways 
from  off  the  stone  or  log  on  which  he  is  sunning  himself ; 
and  the  panic-struck  frog  plumping  in  headlong  as  they  ap- 
proach, and  spreading  an  alarm  throughout  the  watery  world 
around. 

I  recollect,  also,  that,  after  toiling  and  watching  and 
creeping  about  for  the  greater  part  of  a  day,  with  scarcely 
any  success,  in  spite  of  all  our  admirable  apparatus,  a  lub- 
berly country  urchin  came  down  from  the  hills,  with  a  rod 
made  from  a  branch  of  a  tree  ;  a  few  yards  of  twine  \  and,  as 
heaven  shall  help  me  !  I  believe  a  crooked  pin  for  a  hook, 
baited  with  a  vile  earth-worm — and  in  half  an  hour  caught 
more  fish  than  we  had  nibbles  throughout  the  day. 

But  above  all,  I  recollect  the  "  good,  honest,  wholesome, 
hungry"  repast,  which  we  made  under  a  beech-tree  just  by 
a  spring  of  pure  sweet  water,  that  stole  out  of  the  side  of  a 
hill ;  and  how,  when  it  was  over,  one  of  the  party  read  old 
Izaak  Walton's  scene  with  the  milk-maid,  while  I  lay  on  the 
grass  and  built  castles  in  a  bright  pile  of  clouds,  until  I  fell 
asleep.  All  this  may  appear  like  mere  egotism  ;  yet  I  cannot 
refrain  from  uttering  these  recollections  w^hich  are  passing 
like  a  strain  of  music  over  my  mind,  and  have  been  called 
up  by  an  agreeable  scene  which  I  witnessed  not  long  since. 

In  a  morning's  stroll  along  the  banks  of  the  Aiun,  a 
beautiful  little  stream  which  flows  down  from  the  Welsh  hills 


If^ORKS  OF  WASHTMGTON  IRVING, 


and  throws  itself  into  the  Dee,  my  attention  was  attracted 
to  a  group  seated  on  the  margin.  On  approaching,  I  found 
it  to  consist  of  a  veteran  angler  and  two  rustic  disciples.  The 
former  was  an  old  fellow  with  a  wooden  leg,  with  clothes  very 
much,  but  very  carefully  patched,  betokening  poverty,  honestly 
come  by,  and  decently  maintained.  His  face  bore  the  marks 
of  former  storms,  bat  present  fair  weather ;  its  furrows  had 
been  worn  into  an  habitual  smile  ;  his  iron-gray  locks  hung 
about  his  ears,  and  he  had  altogether  the  good-humored  air 
of  a  constitutional  philosopher,  who  was  disposed  to  take 
the  world  as  it  went.  One  of  his  companions  was  a  ragged 
wight^  with  the  skulking  look  of  an  arrant  poacher,  and  I'll 
warrant  could  find  his  way  to  any  gentleman's  fish-pond  in 
the  neighborhood  in  the  darkest  night.  The  other  was  a 
tall,  awkward,  country  lad,  with  a  lounging  rjait,  and  appar- 
ently somewhat  of  a  rustic  beau.  The  old  man  was  busied 
examining  the  maw  of  a  trout  which  he  had  just  killed,  to 
discover  by  its  contents  what  insects  were  seasonable  for 
bait ;  and  was  lecturing  on  the  subject  to  his  companions, 
who  appeared  to  listen  with  infinite  deference,  I  have  a  kind 
feeling  toward  all  "brothers  of  the  angle,*'  ever  since  I  read 
Izaak  Walton.  They  are  men,  he  affirms,  of  a  "  mild,  sweet, 
and  peaceable  spirit ; "  and  my  esteem  for  them  has  been 
increased  since  I  met  with  an  old  "  Tretyse  of  fishing  with 
the  Angle,"  in  which  are  set  forth  many  of  the  maxims  of 
their  inoffensive  fraternity.  *^  Take  goode  hede,"  sayth  this 
honest  little  tretyse,  "  that  in  going  about  your  dispones  ye 
open  no  man's  gates  but  that  ye  shet  them  again.  Also  ye 
shall  not  use  this  foresaid  crafti  disport  for  no  covetousness 
to  the  increasing  and  sparing  of  your  money  only,  but  prin- 
cipally for  your  solace  and  to  cause  the  helth  of  your  body 
and  specyally  of  your  souie."  ''^ 

*  From  this  same  treatise,  it  would  appear  that  angling  is  a  more  in- 
di»tno^is  and  devout  employment  than  it  is  generally  considered.  **  F'or 
wh^  ye  purpose  to  go  on  your  disportes  in  fishynge,  ye  will  not  desvre 
great^'e  many  persons  with  you,  which  might  let  you  of  your  game.  Ana 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  VO^V,  GENT.  331 

I  thought  that  I  could  perceive  in  the  veteran  angler  be 
fore  me  an  exemplification  of  what  I  had  read  ;  and  there 
was  a  cheerful  contentedness  in  his  looks,  that  quite  drew 
me  towards  him.  I  could  not  but  remark  the  gallant  manner 
in  which  he  stumped  from  one  part  of  the  brook  to  another ; 
waving  his  rod  in  the  air,  to  keep  the  line  from  dragginr^  on 
the  ground,  or  catching  among  the  bushes  ;  and  the  adroitness 
with  which  he  would  throw  his  fly  to  any  particular  place  ; 
sometimes  skimming  it  lightly  along  a  little  rapid  ;  sometimes 
casting  it  into  one  of  those  dark  holes  made  by  a  twisted  root 
or  overhanging  bank,  in  which  the  large  trout  are  apt  to 
lurk.  In  the  meanwhile,  he  was  giving  instructions  to  his 
two  disciples  ;  showing  them  the  manner  in  which  they  should 
handle  their  rods,  fix  their  flies,  and  play  them  along  the 
surface  of  the  stream.  The  scene  brought  to  my  mind  the 
instructions  of  the  sage  Piscator  to  his  scholar.  The  country 
around  was  of  that  pastoral  kind  which  Walton  is  fond  of 
describing.  It  was  a  part  of  the  great  plain  of  Cheshire, 
close  by  the  beautiful  vale  of  Gessford,  and  just  where  the 
inferior  Welsh  hills  begin  to  swell  up  from  among  fresh-smell- 
ing meadows.  The  day,  too^  like  that  recorded  in  his  work, 
was  mild  and  sunshiny  ;  with  now  and  then  a  soft  dropping 
shower,  that  sowed  the  whole  earth  with  diamonds. 

I  soon  fell  into  conversation  with  the  old  angler,  and  was 
so  much  entertained,  that,  under  pretext  of  receiving  instruc- 
tions in  his  art,  I  kept  company  with  him  almost  the  whole 
day  :  wandering  along  the  banks  of  the  stream,  and  listening 
to  his  talk.  He  was  very  communicative,  having  all  the  easy 
garrulity  of  cheerful  old  age  ;  and  I  fancy  was  a  little  flat- 
tered by  having  an  opportunity  of  displaying  his  piscatory 
lore ;  for  who  does  not  like  now  and  then  to  play  the  sage  ? 

He  had  been  much  of  a  rambler  in  his  day  ;  and  had 

that  ye  may  serve  God  devoutly  in  sayinge  effectually  your  customable 
prayers.  And  thus  doying,  shall  eschew  and  also  avoyde  many  vices, 
as  ydleness,  which  is  a  principall  cause  to  induce  man  to  many  other  vices, 
as  it  >s  right  well  known.'* 


33 2  WORKS  OF  WAS'IilNG  TON  IR  VING, 

passed  some  years  of  his  youth  in  America,  particularly  in 
Savannah,  where  he  had  entered  into  trade,  and  had  been 
ruined  by  the  indiscretion  of  a  partner.  He  had  afterwards 
experienced  many  ups  and  downs  in  life,  until  he  got  into 
the  navy,  where  his  leg  was  carried  away  by  a  cannon-ball, 
at  the  battle  of  Camperdown.  This  was  the  only  stroke  of 
real  good  fortune  he  had  ever  experienced,  for  it  got  him  a 
pension,  which,  together  with  some  small  paternal  property, 
brought  him  in  a  revenue  of  nearly  forty  pounds.  On  this 
he  retired  to  his  native  village,  where  he  lived  quietly  and 
independently,  and  devoted  the  remainder  of  his  life  to  the 
noble  art  of  angling." 

I  found  that  he  had  read  Izaak  Walton  attentively,  and 
he  seemed  to  have  imbibed  all  his  simple  frankness  and  prev- 
alent good-humor.  Though  he  had  been  sorely  buffeted 
about  the  world,  he  was  satisfied  that  the  world,  in  itself,  was 
good  and  beautiful.  Though  he  had  been  as  roughly  used 
in  different  countries  as  a  poor  sheep  that  is  fleeced  by  every 
hedge  and  thicket,  yet  he  spoke  of  every  nation  with  candor 
and  kindness,  appearing  to  look  only  on  the  good  side  of 
things  ;  and  above  all,  he  was  almost  the  only  man  I  had 
ever  met  with,  who  had  been  an  unfortunate  adventurer  in 
America,  and  had  honesty  and  magnanimity  enough,  to  take 
the  fault  to  his  own  door,  and  not  to  curse  the  country. 

The  lad  that  was  receiving  his  instructions  I  learnt  was 
the  son  and  heir  apparent  of  a  fat  old  widow,  who  kept  the 
village  inn,  and  of  course  a  youth  of  some  expectation,  and 
much  courted  by  the  idle,  gentleman-like  personages  of  the 
place.  In  taking  him  under  his  care,  therefore,  the  old  man 
had  probably  an  eye  to  a  privileged  corner  in  the  tap-room, 
aiid  an  occasional  cup  of  cheerful  ale  free  of  expense. 

There  is  certainly  something  in  angling,  if  we  could  forget, 
which  anglers  are  apt  to  do,  the  cruelties  and  tortures  in- 
flicted on  worms  and  insects,  that  tends  to  produce  a  gentle- 
ness of  spirit,  and  a  pure  serenity  of  mind.  As  the  English 
are  methodical  even  in  their  recreations,  and  are  the  most 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  333 


scientific  of  sportsmen,  it  has  been  reduced  among  them  to 
perfect  rule  and  system.  Indeed,  it  is  an  amusement  pe- 
cuharly  adapted  to  the  mild  and  cultivated  scenery  of  England, 
where  every  roughness  has  been  softened  away  from  the 
landscape.  It  is  delightful  to  saunter  along  those  limpid 
streams  which  wander,  like  veins  of  silver,  through  the  bosom 
of  this  beautiful  country ;  leading  one  through  a  diversity  of 
small  home  scenery  \  sometimes  winding  through  ornamented 
grounds  ;  sometimes  brimming  along  through  rich  pasturage, 
where  the  fresh  green  is  mingled  with  sweet-smelling  flowers  i 
sometimes  venturing  in  sight  of  villages  and  hamlets  ;  and 
then  running  capriciously  away  into  shady  retirements.  The 
sweetness  and  serenity  of  nature,  and  the  quiet  watchfulness, 
of  the  sport,  gradually  bring  on  pleasant  fits  of  musing  j 
w^hich  are  now  and  then  agreeably  interrupted  by  the  song 
of  a  bird;  the  distant  whistle  of  the  peasant;  or  perhaps, 
the  vagary  of  some  fish,  leaping  out  of  the  still  water,  and 
skimming  transiently  about  its  gla&sy  surface.  ^'When  I 
would  beget  content,''  says  Izaak  Walton,  "  and  increase 
confidence  in  the  power  and  wisdom  and  providence  of  Al- 
mighty God,  I  will  walk  the  meadows  by  some  gliding  stream, 
and  there  contemplate  the  lilies  that  take  no  care,  and  those 
very  many  other  little  living  creatures  that  are  not  only 
created,  but  fed,  (man  knows  not  how)  by  the  goodness  of 
the  God  of  nature,  and  therefore  trust  in  him." 

I  cannot  forbear  to  give  another  quotation  from  one  of 
those  ancient  champions  of  angling  which  breathes  the  same 
liiwcent  and  happy  spirit  : 

Let  me  live  harmlessly,  and  near  the  brink 

Of  Trent  or  Avon  have  a  dwelling-place: 
Where  I  may  see  my  quill,  or  cork  down  sink, 

With  eager  bite  of  Pike,  or  Bleak,  or  Dace. 
And  on  the  world  and  my  creator  think  : 

While  some  men  strive  ill-gotten  goods  t'  embrace: 
And  others  spend  their  time  in  base  excess 

Of  wine,  or  worse,  in  war  or  wantonness. 


334 


IVOR  AS  Of  WASHIiYG  TON  IRVING. 


Ixt  them  that  will,  these  pastimes  still  pursue, 
And  on  such  pleasing  fancies  feed  their  fiU, 

:So  I  the  fields  and  meadows  green  may  view, 
And  daily  by  fresh  rivers  walk  at  will 

Among  the  daisies  and  the  violets  blue, 
Red  hyacinth  and  yellow  daffodil..*-  ■ 

On  parting  with  the  old  angler,  I  inquired  after  his  place 
of  abode,  and  happening  to  be  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
village  a  few  evenings  afterwards,  I  had  the  curiosity  to  seek 
him  out.  I  found  him  living  in  a  small  cottage,  containing 
only  one  room,  but  a  perfect  curiosity  in  its  method  and 
arrangement.  It  was  on  the  skirts  of  the  village,  on  a  green 
bank,  a  little  back  from  the  road,  with  a  small  garden  in 
front,  stocked  with  kitchen-herbs,  and  adorned  with  a  few 
flowers.  The  whole  front  of  the  cottage  was  overrun  with  a 
honeysuckle.  On  the  top  was  a  ship  for  a  weathercock. 
The  interior  was  fitted  up  in  a  truly  nautical  style,  his  ideas 
of  comfort  and  convenience  having  been  acquired  on  the 
berth-deck  of  a  man-of-war.  A  hammock  was  slimg  from 
the. ceiling,  which  in  the  day-time  was  lashed  up  so  as  to  take 
but  little  room.  From  the  centre  of  the  chamber  hung  a 
model  of  a  ship,  of  his  own  workmanship.  Two  or  three 
chairs,  a  table,  and  a  large  sea-chest,  formed  the  principal 
movables.  About  the  wall  were  stuck  up  naval  ballads, 
such  as  Admiral  Hosier's  Ghost,  All  in  the  Downs,  and  Tom 
Bowling,  intermingled  with  pictures  of  sea-fights,  among 
which  the  battle  of  Carnperdown  held  a  distinguished  place. 
The  mantelpiece  was  decorated  with  seashells  ;  over  which 
hung  a  quadrant,  flanked  by  two  wood-cuts  of  most  bitter- 
looking  naval  commanders.  His  implements  for  angling 
were  carefully  disposed  on  nails  and  hooks  about  the  room. 
On  a  shelf  was  arranged  his  library,  containing  a  work  on 
angling,  much  worn  ;  a  bible  covered  wdth  canvas  ;  an  odd 
volume  or  two  of  voyages  ;  a  nautical^  almanac ;  and  a  book 
of  songs. 

*  J.  ©avors. 


SKETCH-BOO  A'  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT,  335 

His  family  consisted  of  a  large  black  cat  with  one  eye, 
^..d  a  parrot  which  he  had  caught  and  tamed,  and  educated 
himself,  in  the  course  of  one  of  his  voyages  ;  and  which 
uttered  a  variety  of  sea  phrases,  with  the  hoarse  rattUng  tone  ot 
a  veteran  boatswain.  The  establishment  reminded  me  of  that 
of  the  renowned  Robinson  Crusoe  ;  it  was  kept  in  neat  order, 
everything  being  stowed  away "  with  the  regularity  cf  a 
ship  of  war ;  and  he  informed  me  that  he  "  scoured  the  deck 
every  morning,  and  swept  it  between  meals." 

I  found  him  seated  on  a  bench  before  the  door,  smoking 
his  pipe  in  the  soft  evening  sunshine.  His  cat  was  purring 
soberly  on  the  threshold,  and  his  parrot  describing  some 
strange  evolutions  in  an  iron  ring,  that  swung  in  the  centre 
of  his  cage.  He  had  been  angling  all  day,  and  gave  me  a 
history  of  his  sport  with  as  much  minuteness  as  a  general 
would  talk  over  a  campaign ;  being  particularly  animated 
in  regulating  the  manner  in  which  he  had  taken  a  large  trout, 
which  had  completely  tasked  all  his  skill  and  wariness,  and 
which  he  had  sent  as  a  trophy  to  mine  hostess  of  the  inn. 

How  comforting  it  is  to  see  a  cheerful  and  contented  ola 
age  ;  and  to  behold  a  poor  fellow,  like  this,  after  bein«; 
tempest-tost  through  life,  safely  moored  in  a  snug  and  quiei 
harbor  in  the  evening  of  his  days  !  His  happiness,  however, 
sprung  from  within  himself,  and  was  independent  of  external 
circumstances  ;  for  he  had  that  inexhaustible  good-nature, 
which  is  the  most  precious  gift  of  Heaven;  spreading  itself 
like  oil  over  the  troubled  sea  of  thought,  and  keeping  the 
mind  smooth  and  equable  in  the  roughest  weather. 

On  inquiring  farther  about  him,  I  learnt  that  he  was  a 
universal  favorite  in  the  village,  and  the  oracle  of  the  tap- 
room ;  where  he  delighted  the  rustics  with  his  songs,  and, 
like  Sinbad,  astonished  them  with  his  stories  of  strange  lands, 
and  shipwrecks,  and  sea-fights.  He  was  much  noticed  too  by 
gentlemen  sportsmen  of  the  neighborhood  ;  had  taught  several 
of  them  the  art  of  angling ;  and  was  a  privileged  visitor  to 
their  kitchens.    The  whole  tenor  of  his  life  was  quiet  and 


336  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

inoffensive,  being  principally  passed  about  the  neighboring 
streams,  when  the  weather  and  season  were  favorable  ;  and 
at  other  times  he  employed  himself  at  home,  preparing  his 
fishing  tackle  for  the  next  campaign,  or  manufacturing  rods, 
nets  and  flies,  for  his  patrons  and  pupils  among  the  gentry. 

He  was  a  regular  attendant  at  church  on  Sundays,  though 
he  generally  fell  asleep  during  the  sermon.  He  had  made 
it  his  particular  request  that  when  he  died  he  should  be  buried 
in  a  green  spot,  which  he  could  see  from  his  seat  in  church, 
and  which  he  had  marked  out  ever  since  he  was  a  boy,  and 
had  thought  of  when  far  from  home  on  the  raging  sea,  in 
danger  of  being  food  for  the  fishes — it  was  the  spot  where, 
his  father  and  mother  had  been  buried. 

I  have  done,  for  I  fear  that  my  reader  is  growing  weary  ;, 
but  I  could  .not  refrain  from  drawing  the  picture  of  this, 
worthy  "  brother  of  the  angle who  has  made  me  more  than 
ever  in  love  with  the  theory,  though  I  fear  I  shall  never  be 
adroit  in  the  practice  of  his  ait;  and  I  will  conclude  this- 
rambling  sketch  in  the  words  of  honest  Izaak  Walton,  by 
craving  the  blessing  of  St.  Peter's  master  upon  my  reader, 
and  upon  all  that  are  true  lovers  of  virtue  ;  and  dare  trust 
m  iiis  providence  ;  and  be  quiet ;  and  go  a  angling.'* 


I 


t 

\ 


:^K£rCH-300K  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  3^ 


TOE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW. 

(found   among  the  papers  of  the  late  DIEDRICH 
Knickerbocker), 

A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy  head  it  was, 
Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  eye ; 
And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 
Forever  flushing  round  a  summer  sky. 

Castle  of  Indolence* 

In  the  bosom  of  one  of  those  spacious  coves  which  in- 
dent the  eastern  shore  of  the  Hudson,  at  that  broad  expan- 
sion of  the  river  denominated  by  the  ancient  Dutch  navigators 
the  Tappaan  Zee,  and  where  they  always  prudently  shortened 
sail,  and  implored  the  protection  of  St.  Nicholas  when  they 
crossed,  there  lies  a  small  market  town  or  rural  port,  which 
by  some  is  called  Greensburgh,  but  which  is  more  generally 
and  properly  known  by  the  name  of  Tarry  Town.  This  name 
was  given  it,  we  are  told,  in  former  days,  by  the  good  house- 
wives of  the  adjacent  country,  from  the  inveterate  propensity 
of  their  husbands  to  linger  about  the  village  tavern  on  market 
days.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  do  not  vouch  for  the  fact,  but 
merely  advert  to  it,  for  the  sake  of  being  precise  and  authentic. 
Not  far  from  this  village,  perhaps  about  three  miles,  there  is 
a  little  valley  or  rather  lap  of  land  among  high  hills,  which 
is  one  of  the  quietest  places  in  the  whole  world.  A  small 
brook  glides  through  it,  with  just  murmur  enough  to  lull  one 
to  repose ;  and  the  occasional  whistle  of  a  quail,  or  tapping 
of  a  woodpecker,  is  almost  the  only  sound  that  ever  breaks 
in  upon  the  uniferm  tranquillity, 

zz 


33^  JrOy^A'o  OF  IVASniXGTOU  /RV/A-^^. 

I  recollect  that,  when  a.  stripling,  my  first  exploit  in  s^riir 
rel-shooting  was  in  a  grove  of  tall  walnut  trees  that  shadei^ 
one  side  of  the  valley.  I  had  wandered  iiUo  it  at  noon-time, 
when  all  nature  is  peculiarly  quiet,  and  was  startled  by  the 
roar  of  my  own  gun,  as  it  broke  the  sabbath  stillness  aroundr 
and  was  prolonged  and  reverberated  by  the  angry  echoes, 
If  ever  I  should  wish  for  a  retreat  whither  I  might  steal  from 
the  world  and  its  distractions,  and  dream  quietly  away  the 
remnant  of  a  troubled  life,  I  know  of  none  more  promising 
than  this  little  valley. 

From  the  listless  repose  of  the  place,  and  the  peculiar 
character  of  iis  inhabitanrs,  who  are  descendants  from  th^. 
original  I3utch  settlers,  this  sequestered  glen  has  long  beerii 
known  by  the  name  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  and  its  rustic  lads 
are  called  the  Sleepy  Hollow  Boys  throughout  all  the  neigh 
boring  country.  A  drowsy,  dreamy  influence  seems  to  hang 
over  the  land,  and  to  pervade  the  very  atmosphere.  Some 
say  that  tlie  place  was  bewitched  by  a  high  German  doctor, 
during  the  early  davs  of  the  settlement ;  others,  that  an  old 
Indian  chief,  the  prophet  or  wizard  of  his  tribe,  lie:  1  his 
powwows  there  before  the  country  was  discovered  by  Master 
Hendrick  Hudson.  Certain  it  is  the  place  still  continues 
under  the  sway  of  some  witching  power,  that  holds  a  spell 
over  the  minds  of  the  good  people,  causing  them  to  walk  in 
a  continual  reverie.  They  are  given  to  all  kinds  of  marvel- 
lous beliefs  ;  are  subject  to  trances  and  visions,  and  frequenMy 
see  strange  sights,  and  liear  music  and  voices  i\\  the  ah 
The  whole  neighborhood  abounds  with  local  tales,  haunted 
spots,  and  twilight  superstitions  ;  stars  shoot  and  meteors 
glare  oftener  across  the  valley  than,  in  any  other  part  of  the 
country,  and  the  night-mare,  with  her  whole  nine  fold,  seems? 
to  make  it  the  f?,vorite  scene  of  her  gambols. 

The  dominant  spirit,  however,  that  haunts  this  enchanted 
region,  and  seems  to  be  commander-in-chief  of  all  the  powers 
ot  the  air,  is  the  apyarition  of  a  figure  on  horseback  without 
a  head.    It  is  said  by  some  to  be  the  ghost  of  a  Hessian 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYOA\  GENT,  33^ 

trooper,  whose  head  had  been  carried  away  by  a  cannon-ball, 
in  some  nameless  battle  during  the  revolutr.onary  war,  and 
who  is  ever  and  anon  seen  by  the  country  folk,  hurrying 
along  in  the  gloom  of  night,  as  if  on  the  wings  of  the  wind. 
His  haunts  are  not  confined  to  the  valley,  but  extend  at  times 
to  the  adjacent  roads,  and  especially  to  the  vicinity  of  a 
church  that  is  at  no  great  distance.  Indeed,  certain  of  the 
most  authentic  historians  of  those  parts,  who  have  been 
careful  in  collecting  and  collating  the  floating  facts  concern- 
ing this  spectre,  allege,  that  the  body  of  the  trooper  having 
been  in  the  churchyard,  the  ghost  rides  forth  to  the  scene  of 
battle  in  nightly  quest  of  his  head,  and  that  the  rushing  speed 
with  which  he  sometimes  passes  along  the  hollow,  like  a 
midnight  blast,  is  owing  to  his  being  belated,  and  in  a  hurry 
to  get  back  to  the  churchyard  before  daybreak. 

Such  is  the  general  purport  of  this  legendary  superstition,^ 
which  has  furnished  materials  for  many  a  wild  story  in  that 
region  of  shadows ;  and  the  spectre  is  known  at  all  the 
country  firesides,  by  the  name  of  The  Headless  Horseman 
of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

It  is  remarkable,  that  the  visionary  propensity  I  have 
mentioned  is  not  confined  to  the  native  inhabitants  of  the 
valley,  but  is  unconsciously  imbibed  by  everyone  who  resides 
there  for  a  time.  However  wide  awake  they  may  have  been 
before  they  entered  that  sleepy  region,  they  are  sure,  in  a 
little  time,  to  inhale  the  witching  influence  of  the  air,  and 
begin  to  grow  imaginative — to  dream  dreams,  and  see  appa- 
ritions. 

I  mention  this  peaceful  spot  with  all  possible  laud  ;  for  it 
is  in  such  little  retired  Dutch  valleys,  found  here  and  there 
embosomed  in  the  great  State  of  New-York,  that  population, 
manners,  and  customs  remain  fixed,  while  the  great  torrent 
of  migration  and  improvement,  which  is  making  such  inces- 
sant changes  in  other  parts  of  this  restless  country,  sweeps 
by  them  unobserved.  They  are  like  those  little  nooks  of  still 
water,  which  border  a  rapid  stream,  where  we  may  see  the 


340  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  TRVTNG. 

Straw  and  bubble  riding  quietly  at  anchor,  or  slowly  revolving 
in  their  mimic  harbor,  undisturbed  by  the  rush  of  the  passing 
current.  Though  many  years  have  elapsed  since  I  trod  the 
drowsy  shades  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  yet  I  question  whether  I 
should  not  still  find  the  same  trees  and  the  same  families 
vegetating  in  its  sheltered  bosom. 

In  this  by-place  of  nature  there  abode,  in  a  remote  period 
of  American  history,  that  is  to  say,  some  thirty  years  since, 
a  worthy  wight  of  the  name  of  Ichabod  Crane,  who  sojourned, 
or.  as  he  expressed  it.  "  tarried,"  in  Sleepy  Hollow,  for  the 
purpose  of  instructing  the  children  of  the  vicinity.  He  was 
a  native  of  Connecticut,  a  State  which  supplies  the  Union 
with  pioneers  for  the  mind  as  well  as  for  the  forest,  and  sends 
forth  yearly  its  legions  of  frontier  woodmen  and  country 
schoolmasters.  The  cognomen  of  Crane  was  not  inapplicable 
to  his  person.  He  was  tall,  but  exceedingly  lank,  with  nar- 
row shoulders,  long  arms  and  legs,  hands  that  dangled  a 
mile  out  of  his  sleeves,  feet  that  might  have  served  for  shovels, 
and  his  whole  frame  most  loosely  hung  together.  His  head 
was  small,  and  flat  at  top,  with  huge  ears,  large  green  glassy 
eyes,  and  a  long  snipe  nose,  so  that  it  looked  like  a  weather- 
cock perched  upon  his  spindle  neck,  to  tell  which  way  the 
wind  blew.  To  see  him  striding  along  the  profile  of  a  hill 
on  a  windy  day,  with  his  clo  thes  bagging  and  fluttering  about 
him,  one  might  have  mistaken  him  for  the  genius  of  famine 
descending  upon  the  earth,  or  some  scarecrow  eloped  from  a 
cornfield. 

His  school-house  was  a  low  building  of  one  large  room, 
rudely  constructed  of  logs  ;  the  windows  partly  glazed,  and 
partly  patched  with  leaves  of  copy-books.  It  was  most  in- 
geniously secured  at  vacant  hours,  by  a  withe  twisted  in  the 
handle  of  the  door,  and  stakes  set  against  the  wdndow  shutters  \ 
so  that  thou;.^h  a  thief  might  get  in  with  perfect  ease,  he 
would  \\  \\  .some  embarrassment  in  getting  out ; — an  idea 
most  probably  borrowed  by  the  architect,  Yost  Van  Houten^ 
from  the  mystery  of  an  eelpot.    The  school-house  stood 


SKETCH'BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  VOAT,  GENT.  341 

a  rather  lonely  but  pleasant  situation,  just  at  the  foot  of  a 
woody  hill,  with  a  brook  running  close  by,  and  a  formidable 
birch-tree  growing  at  one  end  of  it.  From  hence  the  low 
murmur  of  his  pupils'  voices,  conning  over  tiieir  lessons, 
might  be  heard  of  drowsy  summer's  day,  like  the  hum  of  a 
beehive ;  interrupted  now  and  then  by  the  authoritative  voice 
of  the  master,  in  the  tone  of  menace  or  command ;  or,  perad- 
venture,  by  the  appalling  sound  of  the  birch,  as  he  urged 
some  tardy  loiterer  along  the  flowery  path  of  knowledge. 
Truth  to  say,  he  was  a  conscientious  man,  that  ever  bore  in 
mind  the  golden  maxim,  "  spare  the  rod  and  spoil  the  child.*' 
— Ichabod  Crane's  scholars  certainly  were  not  spoiled. 

I  would  not  have  it  imagined,  however,  that  he  was  one 
of  those  cruel  potentates  of  the  school,  who  joy  in  the  smart 
Df  their  subjects;  on  the  contrary,  he  administered  justice 
with  discrimination  rather  than  seventy  ;  taking  the  burden 
off  the  backs  of  the  weak,  and  laying  it  on  those  of  the  strong, 
y^our  mere  puny  stripling,  that  winced  at  the  least  flourish 
of  the  rod,  was  passed  by  with  indulgence  ;  but  the  claims 
of  justice  were  satisfied  by  inflicting  a  double  portion  on 
>ome  little,  tough,  wrong-headed,  broad-skirted  Dutch  urchin, 
;vho  sulked  and  swelled  and  grew  dogged  and  sullen  beneath 
.^he  birch.  All  this  he  called  "  doing  his  duty  by  their  parents ; 
and  he  never  inflicted  a  chastisement  v/ithout  following  it 
oy  the  assurance,  so  consolatory  to  the  smarting  urchin, 
^^hat  he  would  remember  it  and  thank  him  for  it  the  longest 
day  he  had  to  live." 

When  school  hours  were  over,  he  was  even  the  companion 
md  playmate  of  the  larger  boys  ;  and  on  holiday  afternoons 
would  convoy  some  of  the  smaller  ones  home,  who  happened 
to  have  pretty  sisters,  or  good  housewives  for  mothers,  noted 
^or  the  comforts  of  the  cupboard.  Indeed,  it  behoved  him  to 
keep  on  good  terms  with  his  pupils.  The  revenue  arising 
from  his  school  was  small,  and  would  have  been  scarcely  suf- 
ficient to  furnish  him  with  daily  bread,  for  he  was  a  huge 
feeder,  and  though  lank,  had  the  dilating  powers  of  ao 


342 


WORK'S  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


anaconda  ;  but  to  help  out  his  maintenance,  he  was,  accordine 
to  country  custom  in  those  parts,  boarded  and  lodged  at  the 
houses  of  the  farmers,  whose  children  he  instructed.  With 
these  he  lived  successively  a  week  at  a  time,  thus  going  the 
rounds  of  the  neighborhood,  with  all  his  worldly  effects  tied 
up  in  a  cotton  handkerchief. 

That  all  this  might  not  be  too  onerous  on  the  purses  of 
Ills  rustic  patrons,  who  are  apt  to  consider  the  costs  of  school- 
ing a  grievous  burden,  and  schoolmasters  as  mere  drones, 
he  had  various  ways  of  rendering  himself  both  useful  and 
agreeable.  He  assisted  the  farmers  occasionally  in  the 
lighter  labors  of  their  farms  ;  helped  to  make  hay  ;  mended 
the  fences  ;  took  the  horses  to  water;  drove  the  cows  from 
pasture ;  and  cut  wood  for  the  winter  fire.  He  laid  aside, 
too,  all  the  dominant  dignity  and  absolute  sway,  with  which 
he  lorded  it  in  his  little  empire,  the  school,  and  became 
wonderfully  gentle  and  ingratiating.  He  found  favor  in  the 
eyes  of  the  mothers  by  petting  the  children,  particularly  the 
youngest  ;  and  like  the  lion  bold,  which  whilome  so  magnani- 
mously the  lamb  did  hold,  he  would  sit  with  a  child  on  one 
knee,  and  rock  a  cradle  with  his  foot  for  whole  hours  together. 

In  addition  to  his  other  vocations,  he  was  the  singing- 
master  of  the  neighborhood,  and  picked  up  many  bright 
shillings  by  instructing  the  young  folks  in  psalmody.  It  was 
a  matter  of  no  little  vanity  to  him  on  Sundays,  to  take  his 
station  in  front  of  the  church  gallery,  with  a  band  of  chosen 
singers ;  where,  in  his  own  mind,  he  completely  carried  away 
the  palm  from  the  pars©n.  Certain  it  is,  his  voice  resounded 
far  above  all  the  rest  of  the  congregation,  and  there  are 
peculiar  quavers  still  to  be  heard  in  that  church,  and  which 
may  even  be  heard  half  a  mile  off,  quite  to  the  opposite  side 
of  the  mill-pond,  on  a  still  Sunday  morning,  which  are  said 
to  be  legitimately  descended  from  the  nose  of  Ichabod  Crane. 
Thus,  by  divers  little  make-shifts,  in  that  ingenious  way  which 
is  commonly  denominated  by  hook  and  by  crook,'*  the  worthy 
pedagogue  got  on  tolerably  enough,  and  was  thought,  by  all 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  VON,  GENT.  343 

who  understood  nothing  of  the  labor  of  head-work,  to  have  a 
wonderful  easy  life  of  it. 

The  schoolmaster  is  generally  a  man  of  some  importance 
in  the  female  circle  of  a  rural  neighborhood  ;  being  considered 
a  kind  of  idle  gentleman-like  personage,  of  vastly  superior 
taste  and  accomplishments  to  the  rough  country  swains,  and, 
indeed,  inferior  in  learning  only  to  the  parson.  His  appear- 
ance, therefore,  is  apt  to  occasion  some  little  stir  at  the  tea- 
table  of  a  farm-house,  and  the  addition  of  a  supernumerary 
dish  of  cakes  or  sweetmeats,  or,  peradventure,  the  parade  of 
a  silver  tea-pot.  Our  man  of  letters,  therefore,  was  peculiarly 
happy  in  the  smiles  of  all  the  country  damsels.  How  he 
would  figure  among  them  in  the  churchyard,  between  services 
on  Sundays  !  gathering  grapes  for  them  from  the  wild  vines 
that  overrun  the  surrounding  trees  ;  reciting  for  their  amuse- 
ment all  the  epitaphs  on  the  tombstones  ;  or  sauntering,  with 
a  whole  bevy  of  them,  along  the  banks  of  the  adjacent  mill- 
pond  ;  while  the  more  bashful  country  bumpkins  hung  sheep- 
ishly back,  envying  his  superior  elegance  and  address. 

From  his  half  itinerant  life,  also,  he  was  a  kind  of  travel- 
ling gazette,  carrying  the  whole  budget  of  local  gossip  from 
house  to  house  ;  so  that  his  appearance  was  always  greeted 
with  satisfaction.  He  was,  moreover,  esteemed  by  the  women 
as  a  man  of  great  erudition,  for  he  had  read  several  books 
quite  through,  and  was  a  perfect  master  of  Cotton  Mather's 
History  of  New  P^ngland  Witchcraft,  in  which,  by  the  way,  he 
most  firmly  and  potently  believed. 

He  was,  in  fact,  an  odd  mixture  of  small  shrewdness  and 
simple  credulity.  His  appetite  for  the  marvellous,  and  his 
powers  of  digesting  it,  were  equally  extraordinary  ;  and  both 
had  been  increased  by  his  residence  in  this  spell-bound  region* 
No  tale  was  too  gross  or  monstrous  for  his  capacious  swallow. 
It  was  often  his  delight,  after  his  school  was  dismissed  in  the 
afternoon,  to  stretch  himself  on  the  rich  bed  of  clover,  bor- 
dering the  little  brook  that  whimpered  by  his  school-house, 
and  there  con  over  old   Mather's  direful  tales,  until  the 


344  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

gathering  dusk  of  evening  made  the  printed  page  a  mere  mist 
before  his  eyes.  Then,  as  he  wended  his  way,  by  swamp  and 
stream  and  awful  woodland,  to  the  farm-house  where  he  hap- 
pened to  be  quartered,  every  sound  of  nature,  at  that  witching 
hour,  fluttered  his  excited  imagination  :  the  moan  of  the  whip- 
poor-will  *  from  the  hill-side  ;  the  boding  cry  of  the  tree-toad, 
that  harbinger  of  storm  ;  the  dreary  hooting  of  the  screech-owl ; 
-or  the  sudden  rustling  in  the  thicket,  of  birds  frightened  from 
their  roost.  The  fire-flies,  too,  which  sparkled  most  vividly 
in  the  darkest  places,  now  and  then  startled  him,  as  one  of 
tincommon  brightness  would  stream  across  his  path  ;  and  if, 
by  chance,  a  huge  blockhead  of  a  beetle  came  winging  his 
blundering  flight  against  him,  the  poor  varlet  was  ready  to 
give  up  the  ghost,  with  the  idea  that  he  was  struck  with  a 
witches  token.  His  only  resource  on  such  occasions,  eit^ier 
to  drown  thought,  or  drive  away  evil  spirits,  was  to  sing 
psalm  tunes  ; — and  the  good  people  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  as  they 
sat  by  their  doors  of  an  evening,  were  often  filled  with 
awe,  at  hearing  his  nasal  melody,  "  in  linked  sweetness  long 
drawn  out,"  floating  from  the  distant  hill,  or  along  the  dusky 
road. 

Another  of  his  sources  of  fearful  pleasure  was,  to  pass 
long  winter  evenings  with  the  old  Dutch  wives,  as  they  sat 
spinning  by  the  fire,  with  a  row  of  apples  roasting  and  sput- 
tering along  the  hearth,  and  listen  to  their  marv^ellous  tales 
of  ghosts,  and  goblins,  and  haunted  fields  and  haunted  brooks, 
and  haunted  bridges  and  haunted  houses,  and  particularly  of 
the  headless  horseman,  or  galloping  Hessian  of  the  Hollow, 
as  they  sometimes  called  him.  He  would  delight  them 
•equally  by  his  anecdotes  of  witchcraft,  and  of  the  direful 
omens  and  portentous  sigh|»  ffcd  sounds  in  the  air,  which 
prevailed  in  the  earlier  times  of  Connecticut ;  and  would 
frighten  them  wofully  with  speculations  upon  comets  and 
^shooting  stars,  and  with  the  alarming  fact  that  the  world  did 

*  The  whip-poor-will  is  a  bird  which  is  only  heard  at  night.  It 
receives  its  name  from  its  note,  which  is  tnought  to  resemble  those  worda. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GIlOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  345. 

absolutely  turn  round,  and  that  they  were  half  the  time  topsy- 
turvy  ! 

But  if  there  was  a  pleasure  in  all  this,  while  snugly  cud- 
dling in  the  chimney  corner  of  a  chamber  that  w^as  all  of  a. 
ruddv  glow  from  the  crackling  wood  fire,  and  where,  of  course,, 
no  spectre  dared  to  show  its  face,  it  was  dearly  purchased  by 
the  terrors  of  his  subsequent  walk  homewards.  What  fear- 
ful shapes  and  shadows  beset  his  path,  amidst  the  dim  and 
ghastly  glare  of  a  snowy  night  ! — With  what  wistful  look  did 
he  eye  every  trembling  ray  of  light  streaming  across  the 
waste  fields  from  some  distant  window  ! — How  often  was  he 
appalled  by  some  shrub  covered  with  snow,  w'hich  like  a 
sheeted  spectre  beset  his  very  path  ! — How  often  did  he 
shrink  with  curdling  awe  at  the  sound  of  Lis  own  s'eps  on 
the  frosty  crust  beneath  his  feet ;  and  dread  to  look  over  his 
shoulder,  lest  he  should  behold  some  uncouth  being  tramping 
dose  behind  him! — and  how  often  was  he  thrown  into  com- 
plete dismay  by  some  rushing  blast,  howling  among  the  trees, 
in  the  idea  that  it  was  the  galloping  Hessian  on  one  of  his 
nightly  scourings  ! 

All  these,  however,  were  mere  terrors  of  the  night,  phan- 
toms of  the  mind,  that  walk  in  darkness  :  and  though  he  had 
seen  many  spectres  in  his  time,  and  been  more  than  once 
becet  by  Satan  in  divers  shapes,  in  his  lonely  perambulations,, 
yet  daylight  put  an  end  to  all  these  evils  ;  and  he  would  have 
passed  a  pleasant  life  of  it,  in  despite  of  the  Devil  and  all 
his  works,  if  his  path  had  not  been  crossed  by  a  being  that 
causes  more  perplexity  to  mortal  man,  than  ghosts,  goblins, 
and  the  whole  race  of  witches  put  together  ;  and  that  was — 
?  V'  oman. 

Among  the  musical  disciples  who  assembled,  ore  evenings 
m  each  week,  to  receive  his  mstructions  in  psalmody,  was 
Katrina  Van  Tassel,  the  daughter  and  only  child  of  a  substan- 
tial Dutch  farmer.  She  was  a  blooming  lass  of  fresh  eigh- 
teer.  ;  plump  as  a  partridge  ;  ripe  and  melting  and  rosy- 

eked  as  one  of  her  father's  peaches,  and  universally  tamed„ 


346  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

not  merely  for  her  beauty,  but  her  vast  expectations.  She 
M'as  withal  a  little  of  a  coquette,  as  might  be  perceived  even 
in  her  dress,  v/hich  was  a  mixture  of  ancient  and  modern 
fashions,  as  most  suited  to  set  off  her  charms.  Slie  wore  the 
ornaments  of  pure  yellow  gold,  which  her  great-great-grand- 
mother had  brought  over  from  Saardam  ;  the  tempting  stom- 
acher of  the  olden  time,  and  withal  a  provokingly  short  petti- 
coat, to  display  the  prettiest  foot  and  ankle  in  the  country 
round. 

Ichabod  Crane  had  a  soft  and  foolish  heart  towards  the 
sex  ;  and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  so  tempting  a 
morsel  soon  found  favor  in  his  eyes,  more  especially  after 
he  had  visited  her  in  her  paternal  mansion.  Old  Baltus  Van 
Tassel  was  a  perfect  picture  of  a  thriving,  contented,  liberal- 
hearted  farmer.  He  seldom,  it  is  true,  sent  either  his  eyes 
or  his  thoughts  be3^ond  the  boundaries  of  his  own  farm  ;  but 
within  these,  everything  was  scug,  happy  and  well-conditioned. 
He  was  satisfied  with  his  wealth,  but  not  proud  of  it ;  and 
piqued  himself  upon  the  hearty  abundance,  rather  than  the 
style  in  which  he  lived.  His  stronghold  was  situated  on  the 
banks  of  the  Hudson,  in  one  of  those  green,  sheltered,  fertile 
nooks,  in  which  the  Dutch  farmers  are  so  fond  of  nestling. 
A  great  elm-tree  spread  its  broad  branches  over  it ;  at  the 
foot  of  which  bubbled  up  a  spring  of  the  softest  and  sweetest 
water,  in  a  little  well,  formed  of  a  barrel ;  and  then  stole 
sparkling  away  through  the  grass,  to  a  neighboring  brook, 
that  babbled  along  among  alders  and  dwarf  willows.  Hard 
by  the  farm-house  was  a  vast  barn,  that  might  have  served 
for  a  church  ;  every  window  and  crevice  of  which  seemed 
bursting  forth  with  the  treasures  of  the  farm  ;  the  flail  was 
busily  resounding  within  it  from  morning  to  night ;  swallows 
and  martins  skimmed  twittering  about  the  eaves  ;  and  rows 
of  pigeons,  some  with  one  eye  turned  up,  as  if  watching  the 
weather,  some  with  their  heads  under  their  wings,  or  buried 
in  their  bosoms,  and  others,  swelling,  and  cooing,  and  bowing 
about  their  dames,  were  enjoying  the  sunshine  on  the  roof. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  34^ 

Sleek  unwieldy  porkers  were  grunting  in  the  repose  and  abun* 
dance  of  their  pens,  from  whence  sallied  forth,  now  and  then, 
troops  of  sucking  pigs,  as  if  to  snuff  the  air.  A  stately  squad- 
ron of  snowy  geese  were  riding  in  an  adjoining  pond,  convoy- 
ing whole  fleets  of  ducks  ;  regiments  of  turkeys  were  gobbling 
through  the  farm-yard,  and  guinea-fowls  fretting  about  it  like 
ill-tempered  housewives,  with  their  peevish,  discontented  cry. 
Before  the  barn  door  strutted  the  gallant  cock,  that  pattern 
of  a  husband,  a  warrior,  and  a  fine  gentleman  ;  clapping  his 
burnished  wings  and  crowing  in  the  pride  and  gladness  of  his 
heart — sometimes  tearing  up  the  earth  with  his  feet,  and  then 
generously  calling  his  ever-hungry  family  of  wives  and  chil- 
dren to  enjoy  the  rich  morsel  which  he  had  discovered. 

The  pedagogue's  mouth  watered,  as  he  ^ooked  upon  this 
sumptuous  promise  of  luxurious  winter  fare.  In  his  devouring 
mind's  eye,  he  pictured  to  himself  every  roasting  pig  running 
about,  with  a  pudding  in  its  belly,  and  an  apple  in  iis  mouth  ; 
the  pigeons  were  snugly  put  to  bed  in  a  comfortable  pie,  and 
tucked  in  with  a  coverlet  of  crust ;  the  geese  were  swimming 
in  their  own  gravy ;  and  the  ducks  pairing  cosily  in  dishes, 
like  snug  married  couples  with  a  decent  competency  of  onion 
sauce.  In  the  porkers  he  saw^  carved  out  the  future  sleek 
side  of  bacon,  and  juicy  relishing  ham  ;  not  a* turkey,  but  he 
beheld  daintily  trussed  up,  with  its  gizzard  under  its  wing, 
and,  peradventure,  a  necklace  of  savory  sausages  ;  and  even 
bright  chanticleer  himself  lay  sprawling  on  his  back,  in  aside 
dish,  with  uplifted  claws,  as  if  craving  that  quarter  which  his 
chivalrous  spirit  disdained  to  ask  while  living. 

As  the  enraptured  Ichabod  fancied  all  this,  and  as  he 
rolled  his  great  green  eyes  over  the  fat  meadow  lands,  the 
rich  fields  of  wheat,  of  rye,  of  buckwheat,  and  Indian  corn, 
and  the  <  rchards  burdened  with  ruddy  fruit,  which  sur- 
rounded the  warm  tenement  of  Van  Tassel,  his  heart  yearned 
after  the  damsel  who  was  to  inherit  these  domains,  and  his 
imagination  expanded  with  the  idea,  how  they  might  be  read- 
ily turned  into  cash,  and  the  money  invested  in  immense 


348  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


tracts  of  wild  land,  and  shingle  palaces  in  the  wilderness. 
Nay,  his  busy  fancy  already  realized  his  hopes,  and  presented 
to  him  the  blooming  Katrina,  with  a  whole  family  of  children 
mounted  on  the  top  of  a  wagon  loaded  with  household  trum- 
pery, with  pots  and  kettles  dangling  beneath  ;  and  he  beheld 
himself  bestriding  a  pacing  mare,  with  a  colt  at  her  heels, 
setting  out  for  Kentucky,  Tennessee — or  the  Lord  knows 
where  ! 

When  he  entered  the  house,  the  conquest  of  his  heart 
was  complete.  It  was  one  of  those  spacious  farm-houses, 
-with  high-ridged,  but  lowly-sloping  roofs,  built  in  the  style 
handed  down  from  the  first  Dutch  settlers.  The  low  project- 
ing eaves  forming  a  piazza  along  the  front,  capable  of  being 
closed  up  in  bad  weather.  Under  this  were  hung  flails,  har- 
ness, various  utensils  of  husbandry,  and  nets  for  fishing  in 
the  neighboring  river.  Benches  were  built  along  the  sides 
for  summer  use  ;  and  a  great  spinning-wheel  at  one  end,  and 
a  churn  at  the  other,  showed  the  various  uses  to  which  this 
important  porch  might  be  devoted.  From  this  piazza  the 
wonderful  Ichabod  entered  the  hall,  which  formed  the  centre 
of  the  mansion,  and  the  place  of  usual  residence.  Here, 
rows  of  resplendent  pewter,  ranged  on  a  long  dresser,  dazzled 
his  eyes.  In  one  corner  stood  a  huge  bag  of  wool,  ready  to 
be  spun  ;  in  another,  a  quantity  of  linsey-woolsey  just  from 
the  loom  ;  ears  of  Indian  corn,  and  strings  of  dried  apples 
and  peaches,  hung  in  gay  festoons  along  the  walls,  mingled 
with  the  gaud  of  red  peppers  ;  and  a  door  left  ajar,  gave  him 
a  peep  into  the  best  parlor,  where  the  claw-footed  chairs,  and 
dark  mahogany  tables,  shone  like  mirrors  ;  andirons,  with 
their  accompanying  shovel  and  tongs,  glistened  from  their 
covert  of  asparagus  tops ;  mock-oranges  and  conch  shells 
decorated  the  mantelpiece  j  strings  of  various  colored  birds' 
eggs  were  suspended  above  it  \  a  great  ostrich  egg  was  hung 
from  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  a  corner  cupboard,  knowingly 
left  open,  displayed  immense  treasures  of  old  silver  and  well- 
cnended  china. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  34^. 

From  the  moment  Ichabod  laid  his  eyes  upon  these  re- 
gions of  delight,  the  peace  of  his  mind  was  at  an  end,  and 
his  only  study  was  how  to  gain  the  affections  of  the  peerless 
daughter  of  Van  Tassel.  In  this  enterprise,  however,  he 
had  more  real  difficulties  than  generally  fell  to  the  lot  of  a 
knight-errant  of  yore,  who  seldom  had  anything  but  giants, 
enchanters,  fiery  dragons,  and  such  like  easily  conquered  ad- 
versaries, to  contend  with  ;  and  had  to  make  his  way  merely 
through  gates  of  iron  and  brass,  and  walls  of  adamant  to  the 
castle-keep,  where  the  lady  of  his  heart  was  confined  ;  all 
which  he  achieved  as  easily  as  a  man  would  carve  his  way  to 
»fhe  centre  of  a  Christmas  pie,  and  then  the  lady  gave  him 
her  hand  as  a  matter  of  course.  Ichabod,  on  the  contrary, 
had  to  win  his  way  to  the  heart  of  a  country  coquette,  beset 
with  a  labyrinth  of  whims  and  caprices,  which  were  forever 
presenting  new  difficulties  and  impediments,  and  he  had  to 
encounter  a  host  of  fearful  adversaries  of  real  flesh  and  blood, 
the  numerous  rustic  admirers,  who  beset  every  portal  to  her 
heart ;  keeping  a  watchful  and  angry  eye  upon  each  other, 
but  ready  to  fly  out  in  the  common  cause  against  any  new 
competitor. 

Among  these,  the  most  formidable  was  a  burly,  roaring, 
roystering  blade,  of  the  name  of  Abraham,  or  according  to 
the  Dutch  abbreviation,  Brom  Van  Brunt,  the  hero  of  the 
country  round,  which  rung  with  his  feats  of  strength  and 
hardihood.-  He  was  broad-shouldered  and  double-jointed, 
with  short  curly  black  hair,  and  a  bluff,  but  not  unpleasant 
countenance,  having  a  mingled  air  of  fun  and  arrogance. 
From  his  Herculean  frame  and  great  powers  of  limb,  he  had 
j-eceived  the  nickname  of  Brom  Bones,  by  which  he  was  uni- 
versally known.  He  was  famed  for  great  knowledge  and 
skill  in  horsemanship,  being  as  dexterous  on  horseback  as  a. 
Tartar.  He  was  foremost  at  all  races  and  cock-fights,  and 
with  the  ascendancy  which  bodily  strength  always  acquires  in 
rustic  life,  was  the  umpire  in  all  disputes,  setting  his  hat  oa 
one  side,  and  giving  his  decisions  with  an  air  and  tone  that 


350  WORK'S  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

admitted  of  no  gainsay  or  appeal.  He  was  always  ready  for 
either  a  fight  or  a  frolic  ;  had  more  mischief  than  ill-will  in 
^is  composition  ;  and  with  all  his  overbearing  roughness, 
there  was  a  strong  dash  of  waggish  good  humor  at  bottom. 
He  had  three  or  four  boon  companions  of  his  own  stamp, 
who  regarded  him  as  their  model,  and  at  the  head  of  whom 
he  scoured  the  country,  attending  every  scene  of  feud  or 
merriment  for  miles  around.  In  cold  weather,  he  was  distin- 
guished by  a  fur  cap,  surmounted  with  a  flaunting  fox's  tail ; 
and  when  the  folks  at  a  country  gathering  descried  this  well- 
known  crest  at  a  distance,  whisking  about  among  a  squad  of 
hard  riders,  they  always  stood  by  for  a  squall.  Sometimes 
his  crew  would  be  heard  dashing  along  past  the  farm-houses 
at  midnight,  with  whoop  and  halloo,  like  a  troop  of  Don 
Cossacks,  and  the  old  dames,  startled  out  of  their  sleep,  would 
listen  for  a  moment  till  the  hurry-scurry  had  clattered  by,  and 
then  exclaim,  "  Ay,  there  goes  Brom  Bones  and  his  gang  ! 
The  neighbors  looked  upon  him  with  a  mixture  of  awe,  admi- 
ration, and  good-will  ;  and  when  any  madcap  prank,  or  rustic 
brawl  occurred  in  the  vicinity,  always  shook  their  heads,  and 
warranted  Brom  Bones  was  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

This  rantipole  hero  had  for  some  time  singled  out  tjie 
blooming  Katrina  for  the  object  of  his  uncouth  gallantries, 
and  though  his  amorous  toyings  were  something  like  the 
gentle  caresses  and  endearments  of  a  bear,  yet  it  was  whis- 
pered that  she  did  not  altogether  discourage  his  hopes.  Cer- 
tain it  is,  his  advances  were  signals  for  rival  candidates  to  re- 
tire, who  felt  no  inclination  to  cross  a  lion  in  his  amours ;  in- 
somuch, that  when  his  horse  was  seen  tied  to  Van  Tassel's 
palings,  on  a  Sunday  night,  a  sure  sign  that  his  master  was 
courting,  or,  as  it  is  termed,  sparking,*'within,  all  other  suit- 
ors passed  by  In  despair,  and  carried  the  war  into  other 
quarters. 

Such  was  the  formidable  rival  with  whom  Ichabod  Crane 
had  to  contend,  and  considering  all  things,  a  stouter  man  than 
he  would  have  shrunk  from  the  competition,  and  a  wiser  man 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.    35 j 

would  have  despaired.  He  had,  however,  a  happy  mixture 
of  pliability  and  perseverance  in  his  nature  ;  he  was  in  form 
and  spirit  like  a  supple-jack — yielding,  but  tough  ;  though  he 
bent,  he  never  broke  ;  and  though  he  bowed  beneath  the 
slightest  pressure,  yet,  the  moment  it  was  away — jerk  ! — he 
was  as  erect,  and  carried  his  head  as  high  as  ever. 

To  have  taken  the  field  openly  against  his  rival,  would 
have  been  madness  ;  for  he  was  not  a  man  to  be  thwarted  in 
his  amours,  any  more  than  that  stormy  lover,  Achilles.  Icha- 
bod,  therefore,  m.ade  his  advances  in  a  quiet  and  gently-insin- 
uating manner.  Under  cover  of  his  character  of  singing-mas- 
ter, he  made  frequent  visits  at  the  farm-house  ;  not  that  he  had 
anything  to  apprehend  from  the  meddlesome  interference  of 
parents,  which  is  so  often  a  stumbling-block  in  the  path  of 
lovers.  Bait  Van  Tassel  was  an  easy  indulgent  soul  ;  he  loved 
his  daughter  better  even  than  his  pipe,  and  like  a  reasonable 
man,  and  an  excellent  father,  let  her  have  her  way  in  every- 
thing. His  notable  little  wife,  too,  had  enough  to  do  to  at- 
tend to  her  housekeeping  and  manage  the  poultry  ;  for,  as  she 
sagely  observed,  ducks  and  geese  are  foolish  things,  and  must 
be  looked  after,  but  girls  can  take  care  of  themselves.  Thus, 
while  the  busy  dame  bustled  about  the  house,  or  plied  her 
spinning-wheel  at  one  end  of  the  piazza,  honest  Bait  would 
sit  smoking  his  evening  pipe  at  the  other,  watching  the  achieve- 
ments of  a  little  wooden  warrior,  who,  armed  with  a  sword  in 
each  hand,  was  most  valiantly  fighting  the  wind  on  the  pin- 
nacle of  the  barn.  In  the  mean  time,  Ichabod  would  carry  on 
his  suit  with  the  daughter  by  the  side  of  the  spring  under  the 
great  elm,  or  sauntering  along  in  the  twilight,  that  hour  so 
favorable  to  the  lover's  eloquence. 

I  profess  not  to  know  how  women's  hearts  are  wooed 
and  won.  To  me  they  have  always  been  matters  of  riddle 
and  admiration.  Some  seem  to  have  but  one  vulnerable  point, 
or  door  of  access ;  while  others  have  a  thousand  avenues, 
and  may  be  captured  in  a  thousand  different  ways.  It  is  a 
great  triumph  of  skill  to  gain  the  former,  but  a  still  greater 


352  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 

proof  of  generalship  to  maintain  possession  of  the  latter,  foi 
a  man  must  battle  for  his  fortress  at  every  door  and  window. 
He  that  wins  a  thousand  common  hearts,  is  therefore  entitled 
to  some  renown  ;  but  he  who  keeps  undisputed  sway  over  the 
heart  of  a  coquette,  is  indeed  a  hero.  Certain  it  is,  this  was 
not  the  case  with  the  redoubtable  Brom  Bones ;  and  from  the 
moment  Ichabod  Crane  made  his  advances,  the  interests  of 
the  former  evidently  declined  :  his  horse  was  no  longer  seen 
tied  at  the  palings  on  Sunday  nights,  and  a  deadly  feud  grad- 
ually arose  between  him  and  the  preceptor  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

Brom,  who  had  a  degree  of  rough  chivalry  in  his  nature, 
would  fain  have  carried  matters  to  open  warfare,  and  settled 
their  pretensions  to  the  lady,  according  to  the  mode  of  those 
most  concise  and  simple  reasoners,  the  knights  errant  of  yore 
— by  single  combat ;  but  Ichabod  was  too  conscious  of  the 
superior  might  of  his  adversary  to  enter  the  lists  against  him  \ 
he  had  overheard  the  boast  of  Bones,  that  he  would  "  double 
the  schoolmaster  up,  and  put  him  on  a  shelf ; and  he  was 
too  W'^ry  to  give  him  an  opportunity.  There  was  something 
extremely  provoking  in  this  obstinately  pacific  system  ;  it  left 
Brom  no  alternative  but  to  draw  upon  the  funds  of  rustic 
waggery  in  his  disposition,  and  to  play  off  boorish  practical 
jokes  upon  his  rival.  Ichabod  became  the  object  of  whimsical 
persecution  to  Bones,  and  his  gang  of  rough  riders.  They 
harried  his  hitherto  peaceful  domains  ;  smoked  out  his  sing- 
ing-school, by  stopping  up  the  chimney  ;  broke  into  the  school- 
house  at  night,  in  spite  of  its  formidable  fastenings  of  withe 
and  window  stakes,  and  turned  everything  topsy-turvy ;  so 
that  the  poor  schoolmaster  began  to  think  all  the  witches  in 
the  country  held  their  meetings  there.  But  what  was  still 
more  annoying,  Brom  took  all  opportunities  of  turning  him  into 
ridicule  in  presence  of  his  mistress,  and  had  a  scoundrel  dog 
whom  he  taught  to  whine  in  the  most  ludicrous  manner,  and 
introduced  as  a  rival  of  Ichabod's,  to  instruct  her  in  psalmody. 
In  this  way,  matters  went  on  for  some  time,  without  pro 


SKETCH-BOOIC  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  3P3 

ducing  any  material  effect  on  the  relative  situations:  of  the 
contending  powers.  On  a  fine  autumnal  afternoon,  Ichabod, 
in  pensive  mood,  sat  enthroned  on  the  lofty  stool  from  whence 
he  usually  watched  all  the  concerns  of  his  literary  realm.  In 
his  hand  he  swayed  a  ferule,  that  sceptre  of  despotic  power ; 
the  birch  of  justice  reposed  on  three  nails,  behind  the  throne, 
a  constant  terror  to  evil  doers  ;  while  on  the  desk  before  him 
might  be  seen  sundry  contraband  articles  and  prohibited  wea- 
pons, detected  upon  the  persons  of  idle  urchins  ;  such  as 
half-munched  apples,  popguns,  whirligigs,  fly-cages,  and  whole 
legions  of  rampant  little  paper  game-cocks.  Apparently  there 
had  been  some  appalling  act  of  justice  recently  inflicted,  for 
his  scholars  were  all  busily  intent  upon  their  books,  or  slyly 
whispering  behind  them  wdth  one  eye  kept  upon  the  master ; 
and  a  kind  of  buzzing  stillness  reigned  throughout  the  school- 
room. It  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  a 
negro  in  tow-cloth  jacket  and  trowsers,  a  round  crowned  frag- 
ment of  a  hat,  like  the  cap  of  Mercury,  and  mounted  on  the 
back  of  a  ragged,  wild,  half-broken  colt,  which  he  managed 
with  a  rope  by  way  of  halter.  He  came  clattering  up  to 
the  school-door  with  an  invitation  to  Ichabod  to  attend  a 
merry-making,  or  quilting-frolic,"  to  be  held  that  evening  at 
Mynheer  Van  Tassel's  ;  and  having  delivered  his  message 
with  that  air  of  importance,  and  effort  at  fine  language,  which 
a  negro  is  apt  to  display  on  petty  embassies  of  the  kind,  he 
dashed  over  the  brook,  and  was  seen  scampering  away  up  the 
hollow,  full  of  the  importance  and  hurry  of  his  mission. 

AH  was  now  bustle  and  hubbub  in  the  late  quiet  school- 
room. The  scholars  were  hurried  through  their  lessons,  with- 
out stopping  at  trifles  ;  those  who  were  nimble,  skipped  over 
half  with  impunity,  and  those  who  were  tardy,  had  a  smart 
application  now  and  then  in  the  rear,  to  quicken  their  speed, 
or  help  them  over  a  tall  word.  Books  were  flung  aside,  with- 
out being  put  away  on  the  shelves  ;  inkstands  were  overturned, 
benches  thrown  down,  and  the  whole  school  was  turned  loose 
an  hour  before  the  usual  time ;  bursting  forth  like  a  legior.  of 

23 


354 


WORKS  OF  WASfllNGTON'  IRVmG, 


young  imps,  yelping  and  racketing  about  the  green,  in  joy  at 
their  early  emancipation. 

The  gallant  Ichabod  now  spent  at  least  an  extra  half-hour 
at  his  toilet,  brushing  and  furbishing  up  his  best,  and  indeed 
only  suit  of  rust}^  black,  and  arranging  his  looks  by  a  bit  of 
broken  looking-glass,  that  hung  up  in  the  school-house.  That 
he  might  make  his  appearance  before  his  mistress  in  the  true 
style  of  a  cavalier,  he  borrowed  a  horse  from  the  farmer  with 
whom  he  v»ras  domiciliated,  a  choleric  old  Dutchman,  of  the  name 
of  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  thus  gallantly  mounted,  issued  forth 
like  a  knight-errant  in  quest  of  adventures.  But  it  is  meet  I 
should,  in  the  true  spirit  of  romantic  story,  give  some  account 
of  the  looks  and  equipments  of  my  hero  and  his  steed.  TAe 
animal  he  bestrode  was  a  broken-down  plough-horse,  that  had 
outlived  almost  everything  but  his  viciousness.  He  was  gaunt 
and  shagged,  with  a  ewe  neck  and  a  head  like  a  hammer ;  his 
rusty  mane  and  tail  were  tangled  and  knotted  with  burrs  ;  one 
eye  had  lost  its  pupil,  and  was  glaring  and  spectral,  but  the 
other  had  the  gleam  of  a  genuine  devil  in  it.  Still  he  must 
have  had  fire  and  mettle  in  his  day,  if  we  may  judge  from  his 
name,  which  was  Gunpowder.  He  had,  in  fact,  been  a  favor- 
ite steed  of  his  master's,  the  choleric  Van  Ripper,  who  was  a 
furious  rider,  and  had  infused,  very  probably,  some  of  his  own 
spirit  into  the  animal  ;  for,  old  and  broken-down  as  he  looked^ 
there  was  more  of  the  lurking  devil  in  him  than  in  any  young 
filly  in  the  country. 

Ichabod  was  a  suitable  figure  for  such  a  steed.  He  rode 
with  short  stirrups,  which  brought  his  knees  nearly  up  to  the 
pommel  of  the  saddle  ;  his  sharp  elbows  stuck  out  like  grass- 
hoppers' ;  he  carried  his  whip  perpendicularly  in  his  hand, 
like  a  sceptre,  and  as  the  horse  jogged  on,  the  motion  of  his 
arms  was  not  unlike  the  flapping  of  a  pair  of  wings.  A  small 
wool  hat  rested  on  the  top  of  his  nose,  for  so  his  scanty  strip 
of  forehead  might  be  called,  and  the  skirts  of  his  black  coat 
fluttered  out  almost  to  the  horse's  tail.  Such  was  the  appear- 
ance of  Ichabod  and  his  steed  as  they  shambled  out  of  the 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  351- 

gate  of  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  it  was  altogether  such  an  ap* 
parition  as  is  seldom  to  be  met  with  in  broad  daylight. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  fine  autumnal  day  ;  the  sky  was 
clear  and  serene,  and  nature  wore  that  rich  and  golden  livery 
which  we  always  associate  wdth  the  idea  of  abundance.  The 
forests  had  put  on  their  sober  brown  and  yellow,  while  some 
trees  of  the  tenderer  kind  had  been  nipped  by  the  frosts  into 
brilliant  dyes  of  orange,  purple,  and  scarlet.  Streaming  files 
of  wild  ducks  began  to  make  their  appearance  high  in  the  air  ; 
the  bark  of  the  squirrel  might  be  heard  from  the  groves  of 
beech  and  hickory-nuts,  and  the  pensive  whistle  of  the  quail 
at  intervals  from  the  neighboring  stubble  field. 

The  small  birds  were  taking  their  farewell  banquets.  In 
the  fulness  of  their  revelry,  they  fluttered,  chirping  and  frolick- 
ing, from  bush  to  bush,  and  tree  to  tree,  capricious  from  the 
very  profusion  and  variety  around  them.  There  was  the 
honest  cockrobin,  the  favorite  game  of  stripling  sportsmen, 
with  its  loud  querulous  note,  and  the  twittering  blackbirds 
flying  in  sable  clouds ;  and  the  golden-winged  woodpecker, 
with  his  crimson  crest,  his  broad  black  gorget,  and  splendid 
plumage  ;  and  the  cedar-bird,  with  its  red-tipt  wings  and  yei- 
Jovv-tipt  tail  and  its  little  monteiro  cap  of  feathers  ;  and  thQ 
blue  jay,  that  noisy  coxcomb,  in  his  gay  light  blue  coat  and 
white  underclothes,  screaming  and  chattering,  nodding,  and 
bobbing,  and  bowing,  and  pretending  to  be  on  good  terms  witk 
every  songster  of  the  grove. 

As  Ichabod  jogged  slowly  on  his  way,  his  eye,  ever  opei 
to  every  symptom  of  culinary  abundance,  ranged  with  delight: 
over  the  treasures  of  jolly  autumn.  On  all  sides  he  beheld 
vast  store  of  apples,  some  hanging  in  oppressive  opulence  on 
the  trees  ;  some  gathered  into  baskets  and  barrels  for  the 
market ;  others  heaped  up  in  rich  piles  for  the  cider-press. 
Farther  on  he  beheld  great  fields  of  Indian  corn,  with  its 
golden  ears  peeping  from  their  leafy  coverts,  and  holding  out 
the  promise  of  cakes  and  hasty-pudding ;  and  the  yellow 
pumpkins  lying  beneath  them,  turning  up  their  fair  roun4 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

bellies  to  the  sun,  and  giving  ample  prospects  of  the  most 
luxurious  of  pies ;  and  anon  he  passed  the  fragrant  buck- 
wheat fields  breathing  the  odor  of  the  beehive,  and  as  he  be- 
held them,  soft  anticipations  stole  over  his  mind  of  dainty 
slap-jacks,  well-buttered,  and  garnished  with  honey  or  treacle^ 
by  the  delicate  little  dimpled  hand  of  Katrina  Van  Tassel. 
Thus  feeding  his  mind  with  many  sweet  thoughts  and 
sugared  suppositions,"  he  journeyed  along  the  sides  of  a 
range  of  hills  which  look  out  upon  some  of  the  goodliest  scenes 
of  the  mighty  Hudson.  The  sun  gradually  wheeled  his  broad 
disk  down  in  the  west.  The  wide  bosom  of  the  Tappaan  Zee 
lay  motionless  and  glassy,  excepting  that  here  and  there  a 
gentle  undulation  waved  and  prolonged  the  blue  shadow  of 
the  distant  mountain.  A  few  amber  clouds  floated  in  the  sky, 
without  a  breath  of  air  to  move  them.  The  horizon  was  of  a 
fine  golden  tint,  changing  gradually  into  a  pure  apple  green, 
and  from  that  into  the  deep  blue  of  the  mid-heaven.  A  slant- 
ing ray  lingered  on  the  woody  crests  of  the  precipices  that 
overhung  some  parts  of  the  river,  giving  greater  depth  to  the 
dark  gray  and  purple  of  their  rocky  sides.  A  sloop, was 
loitering  in  the  distance,  dropping  slowly  down  with  the  tide, 
her  sail  hanging  uselessly  against  the  mast ;  and  as  the  reflec- 
tion of  the  sky  gleamed  along  the  still  water,  it  seemed  as  if 
the  vessel  was  suspended  in  the  air. 

It  was  toward  evening  that  Ichabod  arrived  at  the  castle 
of  the  Heer  Van  Tassel,  which  he  found  thronged  with  the 
pride  and  flower  of  the  adjacent  country.  Old  farmers,  a 
spare  leathern-faced  race,  in  homespun  coats  and  breeches, 
blue  stockings,  huge  shoes,'  and  magnificent  pewter  buckles. 
Their  brisk,  withered  little  dames,  in  close  crimped  caps,  long- 
waisted  gowns,  homespun  petticoats,  with  scissors  and  pin- 
cushions, and  gay  calico  pockets  hanging  on  the  outside. 
Buxom  lasses,  almost  as  antiquated  as  their  mothers,  excepting 
where  a  straw  hat,  a  fine  ribbon,  or  perhaps  a  white  frock^ 
gave  symptoms  of  city  innovations.  The  sons,  in  short  square 
bKirted  coats,  with  rows  of  stupendous  brass  buttons,  and  thei» 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON.  GENT.  2,^1 

hair  generally  queued  in  the  fashion  of  the  times,  especially  if 
they  could  procure  an  eelskin  for  the  purpose,  it  being  esteemed 
throughout  thecountr)%  as  a  potent  nourisher  and  strengthener 
of  the  hair. 

Brom  Bones,  however,  was  the  hero  of  the  scene,  having 
come  to  the  gathering  on  his  favorite  steed  Daredevil,  a  crea- 
ture, like  himself,  full  of  mettle  and  mischief,  and  which  no  one 
but  himself  could  manage.  He  was,  in  fact,  noted  for  pre- 
ferring vicious  animals,  given  to  all  kinds  of  tricks  which  kept 
the  rider  in  constant  risk  of  his  neck,  for  he  held  a  tractable 
well-broken  horse  as  unworthy  of  a  lad  of  spirit. 

Fain  would  I  pause  to  dwell  upon  the  world  of  charms 
that  burst  upon  the  enraptured  gaze  of  my  hero,  as  he  entered 
the  state  parlor  of  Van  Tassel's  mansion.  Not  those  of  the 
bevy  of  buxom  lasses,  with  their  luxurious  display  of  red  and 
v/hite  ;  but  the  ample  charms  of  a  genuine  Dutch  country 
tea-table,  in  the  sumptuous  time  of  autumn.  Such  heaped-up 
platters  of  cakes  of  various  and  almost  indescribable  kinds, 
known  only  to  experienced  Dutch  housewives  !  There  was 
the  doughty  dough-nut,  the  tender  oly-koek,  and  the  crisp  and 
crumbling  cruller ;  sweet  cakes  and  short  cakes,  ginger  cakes 
and  honey  cakes,  and  the  whole  family  of  cakes.  And  then  there 
were  apple  pies,  and  peach  pies,  and  pumpkin  pies  ;  besides 
slices  of  ham  and  smoked  beef  ;  and  moreover  delectable  dishes 
of  preserved  plums,  and  peaches,  and  pears,  and  quinces  ;  not 
to  mention  broiled  shad  and  roasted  chickens  ;  together  with 
bowls  of  milk  and  cream,  all  mingled  higgledy-piggledy,  pretty 
much  as  I  have  enumerated  them,  with  the  motherly  tea-pot 
sending  up  its  clouds  of  vapor  from  the  midst — Heaven  bless 
the  mark  !  I  want  breath  and  time  to  discuss  this  banquet 
as  it  deserves,  and  am  too  eager  to  get  on  with  my  story. 
Happily,  Ichabod  Crane  was  not  in  so  great  a  hurry  as  his 
historian,  but  did  ample  justice  to  every  dainty. 

He  was  a  kind  and  thankful  creature,  whose  heart  dilated 
m  proportion  as  his  skin  was  filled  with  good  cheer,  and  v/hose 
spirits  rose  with  eating,  as  some  men's  do  with  drink.  He 


^^8  WORA^S  OF  WASHING 7 ON  IRVING. 

could  not  help,  too,  roiling  his  large  eyes  round  him  as  he  ate^ 
and  chuckling  with  the  possibility  that  he  might  one  day  be 
lord  of  all  this  scene  of  almost  unimaginable  luxury  and  splen- 
dor. Then,  he  thought,  how  soon  he'd  turn  his  back  upon  the 
old  school-house  ;  snap  his  fingers  in  the  face  of  Hans  Van 
Ripper,  and  every  other  niggardly  patron,  and  kick  any  itin- 
erant pedagogue  out  of  doors  that  should  dare  to  call  him 
comrade  ! 

Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel  moved  about  among  his  guests 
with  a  face  dilated  with  content  and  good-humor,  round  and 
jolly  as  the  harvest  moon.  His  hospitable  attentions  were 
brief,  but  expressive,  being  confined  to  a  shake  of  the  hand,  a 
slap  on  the  shoulder,  a  loud  laugh,  and  a  pressing  invitation 
to    fall  to,  and  help  themselves.'' 

And  now  the  sound  of  the  music  from  the  common  room,  c! 
hall,  summoned  to  the  dance.  The  musician  was  an  old  gray- 
headed  negro,  who  had  been  the  itinerant  orchestra  of  ine 
neighborhood  for  more  than  half  a  century.  His  instru- 
ment was  as  old  and  battered  as  himself.  The  greater  pan 
of  the  time  he  scraped  away  on  two  or  three  strings,  accom- 
panying every  movement  of  the  bow  with  a  motion  of  the  head  ; 
bowing  almost  to  the  ground,  and  stamping  with  his  foot  when- 
ever a  fresh  couple  were  to  start. 

Ichabod  prided  himself  upon  his  dancing  as  much  as  upon 
his  vocal  powers.  Not  a  limb,  not  a  fibre  about  him  was  idle  ; 
and  to  have  seen  his  loosely  hung  frame  in  full  motion,  and 
clattering  about  the  room,  you  would  have  thought  St.  Vitus 
himself,  that  blessed  patron  of  the  dance,  was  figuring  before 
you  in  person.  He  was  the  admiration  of  all  the  negroes  ; 
who,  having  gathered,  of  all  ages  and  sizes,  from  the  farm  and 
the  neighborhood,  stood  forming  a  pyramid  of  shining  black 
faces  at  every  door  and  window  ;  gazing  with  delight  at  the 
scene  ;  rolling  their  white  eye-balls,  and  showing  grinning 
rows  of  ivory  from  ear  to  ear.  How  could  the  fiogger  of 
urchins  be  otherwise  than  animated  and  joyous  1  the  lady  of 
his  heart  was  his  partner  in  the  dance,  and  smiling  graciously 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  359 

in  reply  to  all  his  amorous  oglings ;  while  Brom  Bones,  sorely 
smitten  with  love  and  jealousy,  sat  brooding  by  himself  in 
one  corner. 

When  the  dance  was  at  an  end,  Ichabod  was  attracted  to  a 
knot  of  the  sager  folks,  who,  with  Old  Van  Tassel,  sat  smok- 
ing at  one  end  of  the  piazza,  gossiping  over  former  times,, 
and  drawling  out  long  stories  about  the  war. 

This  neighborhood,  at  the  time  of  which  I  am  speaking,, 
was  one  of  those  highly  favored  places  which  abound  with 
chronicle  and  great  men.  The  British  and  American  line 
had  run  near  k  during  the  war ;  it  had,  therefore,  been  the 
scene  of  marauding,  and  infested  with  refugees,  cow-boys, 
and  all  kind  of  border  chivalry.  Just  sufficient  time  had 
elapsed  to  enable  each  story-teller  to  dress  up  his  tale  with  a 
little  becoming  fiction,  and,  in  the  indistinctness  of  his  recol- 
lection, to  make  himself  the  hero  of  every  exploit. 

There  was  the  story  of  Doffue  Marti ing,  a  large  blue- 
bearded  Dutchman,  who  had  nearly  taken  a  British  frigate 
with  an  old  iron  nine-pounder  from  a  mud  breastwork,  only 
that  his  gun  burst  at  the  sixth  discharge.  And  there  was  an 
old  gentleman  who  shall  be  nameless,  being  too  rich  a  mynheer 
to  be  lightly  mentioned,  who  in  the  battle  of  Whiteplains, 
being  an  excellent  master  of  defence,  parried  a  musket-ball 
with  a  small-sword,  insomuch  that  he  absolutely  felt  it  whiz 
round  the  blade,  and  glance  off  at  the  hilt ;  in  proof  of  which 
he  was  ready  at  any  time  to  show  the  sword,  with  the  hilt  a 
little  bent.  There  were  several  more  that  had  been  equally 
great  in  the  field,  not  one  of  whom  but  was  persuaded  that  he 
had  a  considerable  hand  in  bringing  the  war  to  a  happy 
•-ermination. 

But  all  these  were  nothing  to  the  tales  of  ghosts  and  appari- 
tions that  succeeded.  The  neighborhood  is  rich  in  legendary 
treasures  of  the  kind.  Local  tales  and  superstitions  thrive 
best  in  these  sheltered,  long-settled  retreats  ;  but  are  trampled 
under  foot,  by  the  shifting  throng  that  forms  the  population  of 
most  of  our  country  places.    Besides,  there  is  no  encourage- 


36o 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


inent  for  ghosts  in  most  of  our  villages,  for  they  have  scarcely 
had  time  to  finish  their  first  nap,  and  turn  themselves  in  their 
graves,  before  their  surviving  friends  have  travelled  away  from 
the  neighborhood;  so  that  when  they  turn  out  at  night  to  walk 
their  rounds,  they  have  no  acquaintance  left  to  call  upon. 
This  is  perhaps  the  reason  why  we  so  seldom  hear  of  ghosts 
except  in  our  long-established  Dutch  communities. 

The  immediate  cause,  however,  of  the  prevalence  of  super- 
natural stories  in  these  parts,  was  doubtless  owing  to  the 
vicinity  of  Sleepy  Hollow.  There  was  a  contagion  in  the  very 
air  that  blew  from  that  haunted  region  ;  it  breathed  forth  an 
atmosphere  of  dreams  and  fancies  infecting  all  the  land.  Sev- 
eral of  the  Sleepy  Hollow  people  were  present  at  Van  Tas- 
sel's, and,  as  usual,  were  doling  out  their  wild  and  wonderful 
legends.  Many  dismal  tales  were  told  about  funeral  trains, 
and  mourning  cries  and  waiiings  heard  and  seen  about  the 
great  tree  where  the  unfortunate  Major  Andre  was  taken,  and 
which  stood  in  the  neighborhood.  Some  mention  was  made 
also  of  the  woman  in  white,  that  hunted  the  dark  glen  at 
Raven  Rock,  and  was  often  heard  to  shriek  on  winter  nights 
before  a  storm,  having  perished  there  in  the  snow.  The  chief 
part  of  the  stories,  however,  turned  upon  the  favorite  spectre 
of  Sleepy  Hollow,  the  headless  horseman,  who  had  been  heard 
several  times  of  late,  patrolling  the  country  ;  and  it  is  said, 
tethered  his  horse  nightly  among  the  graves  in  the  churchyard. 

The  sequestered  situation  of  this  church  seems  always  to 
have  made  it  a  favorite  haunt  of  troubled  spirits.  It  stands  on 
a  knoll,  surrounded  by  locust-trees  and  lofty  elms,  from  among 
which  its  decent,  whitewashed  walls  shine  modestly  forth,  like 
Christian  purity,  beaming  through  the  shades  of  retirement.  A 
gentle  slope  descends  from  it  to  a  silver  sheet  of  water,  bor- 
dered by  high  trees,  between  which,  peeps  may  be  caught  at  the 
blue  hills  of  the  Hudson.  To  look  upon  its  grassgrown  yard, 
where  the  sunbeams  seem  to  sleep  so  quietly,  one  would  think 
that  there  at  least  the  dead  might  rest  in  peace.  On  one  side 
of  the  church  extends  a  wide  woody  dell,  along  which  raves  a 


farge  brook  among  broken  rocks  and  trunRs  of  fallen  trees. 
Over  a  deep  black  part  of  the  stream,  not  far  from  the  church, 
was  formerly  thrown  a  wooden  bridge  ;  the  road  that  led  to  it, 
and  the  bridge  itself,  were  thickly  shaded  by  overhanging, 
trees,  which  cast  a  gloom  about  it,  even  in  the  day-time  ;  but 
occasioned  a  fearful  darkness  at  night.  Such  was  one  of  the 
favorite  haunts  of  the  headless  horseman,  and  the  place  where 
he  was  most  frequently  encountered.  The  tale  was  told  of  old 
Brouwer,  a  most  heretical  disbeliever  in  ghosts,  how  he  met  the 
horseman  returning  from  his  foray  into  Sleepy  Hollow,  and 
was  obliged  to  get  up  behind  him  ;  how  they  galloped  over 
bush  and  brake,  over  hill  and  swamp,  until  they  reached  the 
bridge ;  when  the  horseman  suddenly  turned  into  a  skeleton^ 
threw  old  Brouwer  into  the  brook,  and  sprang  away  over  the 
tree-tops  with  a  clap  of  thunder. 

This  story  was  immediately  matched  by  a  thrice  marvellous 
adventure  of  Brom  Bones,  who  made  light  of  the  galloping 
Hessian  as  an  arrant  jockey.  He  affirmed,  that  on  returning 
one  night  from  the  neighboring  village  of  Sing-Sing,  he  had 
been  overtaken  by  this  midnight  trooper  ;  that  he  had  offered 
to  race  with  him  for  a  bowl  of  punch,  and  should  have  won  it 
too,  for  Daredevil  beat  the  goblin  horse  all  hollow,  but  just  as 
they  came  to  the  church  bridge,  the  Hessian  bolted,  and  van- 
ished in  a  flash  of  fire. 

All  these  tales,  told  in  that  drowsy  undertone  with  which 
men  talk  in  the  dark,  the  countenances  of  the  listeners  only 
now  and  then  receiving  a  casual  gleam  from  the  glare  of  a  pipe^ 
sunk  deep  in  the  mind  of  Ichabod.  He  repaid  them  in  kind 
with  large  extracts  from  his  invaluable  author,  Cotton 
Mather,  and  added  many  marvellous  events  that  had  taken 
place  in  his  native  State  of  Connecticut,  and  fearful  sights 
which  be  had  seen  in  his  nightly  walks  about  Sleepy  Hollow. 

The  revel  now  gradually  broke  up.  The  old  farmers  gath- 
ered together  their  families  in  their  wagons,  and  were  heard 
for  some  time  rattling  along  the  hollow  roads,  and  over  the 
distant  hilis.   Some  of  the  damsels  mounted  on  pillions  behind 


362  IVOJ^ATS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 

their  favorite  swains,  and  their  light-hearted  laughter,  mlng. 
ling  with  the  clatter  of  hoofs,  echoed  along  the  silent  wood 
lands,  sounding  fainter  and  fainter^  until  they  gradually  died 
away — and  the  late  scene  of  noise  and  frolic  was  all  silent  and 
deserted.  Ichabod  only  lingered  behind,  according  to  the 
custom  of  country  lovers,  to  have  a  tete-a-tete  with  the  heiress  j 
iully  convinced  that  he  was  now  on  the  high  road  to  success. 
What  passed  at  this  interview  I  will  not  pretend  to  say,  for  in 
fact  I  do  not  know.  Something,  however,  I  fear  me,  must 
have  gone  wrong,  for  he  certainly  sallied  forth,  after  no  very 
great  interval,  with  an  air  quite  desolate  and  chapf alien — Oh> 
these  women  !  these  women  !  Could  that  girl  hav£  been  playing 
off  any  of  her  coquettish  tricks  ? — Was  her  encouragement  of  the 
poor  pedagogue  all  a  mere  sham  to  secure  her  conquest  of  his 
rival  ? — Heaven  only  knows,  not  I  ! — Let  it  suffice  to  say,  Icha- 
bod stole  forth  with  the  air  of  one  who  had  been  sacking  a  hen- 
roost, rather  than  a  fair  lady's  heart.  Without  looking  to  the 
right  or  left  to  notice  the  scene  of  rural  wealth,  on  which  he 
had  so  often  gloated,  he  went  straight  to  the  stable,  and  with 
several  hearty  cuffs  and  kicks,  roused  his  steed  most  uncourte- 
ously  from  the  comfortable  quarters  in  which  he  was  soundly 
isleeping,  dreaming  of  mountains  of  corn  and  oats,  and  whole 
valleys  of  timothy  and  clover. 

It  was  the  very  witching  time  of  night  that  Ichabod,  heavy- 
hearted  and  crest-fallen,  pursued  his  travel  homewards,  along 
the  sides  of  the  lofty  hills  which  rise  above  Tarry  Town,  and 
which  he  had  traversed  so  cheerily  in  the  afternoon.  The 
hour  was  as  dismal  as  himself.  Far  below  him  the  Tappaan 
Zee  spread  its  dusky  and  indistinct  waste  of  waters,  with  here 
and  there  the  tall  mast  of  a  sloop,  riding  quietly  at  anchor 
under  the  land.  In  the  dead  hush  of  midnight,  he  could  even 
hear  the  barking  of  the  watch-dog  from  the  opposite  shore  of 
the  Hudson  ;  but  it  was  so  vague  and  faint  as  only  to  give  an 
idea  of  his  distance  from  this  faithful  companion  of  man. 
Now  and  then,  too,  the  long-drawn  crowing  of  a  cock,  ac- 
cidentally awakened,  would  sound  far,  far  off,  from  some  fariu* 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFI^REY  CRAYON,  GENT.  363 

house  away  among  the  hills — but  it  was  like  a  dreaming  sound 
in  his  ear.  No  signs  of  life  occurred  near  him,  but  occasionally 
the  melancholy  chirp  of  a  cricket,  or  perhaps  the  guttural 
twang  of  a  bull-frog  from  a  neighboring  marsh,  as  if  sleeping 
uncomfortably,  and  turning  suddenly  in  his  bed. 

All  the  stories  of  ghosts  and  goblins  that  he  had  heard  in 
the  afternoon,  now  came  crowding  upon  his  recollection. — The 
night  grew  darker  and  darker  ;  the  stars  seemed  to  sink  deep- 
er in  the  sky,  and  driving  clouds  occasionally  hid  them  from 
his  sight.  He  had  never  felt  so  lonely  and  dismal.  He  was, 
moreover,  approaching  the  very  place  where  many  of  the  scenes 
of  the  ghost  stories  had  been  laid.  In  the  centre  of  the  road 
stood  an  enormous  tulip-tree,  which  towered  like  agiant  above 
all  the  other  trees  of  the  neighborhood,  and  formed  a  kind  of 
landmark.  Its  limbs  were  gnarled  and  fantastic,  large  enough 
to  form  trunks  for  ordinary  trees,  twisting  down  almost  to  the 
earth,  and  rising  again  into  the  air.  It  was  connected  with 
the  tragical  story  of  the  unfortunate  Andre,  who  had  been 
taken  prisoner  hard  by ;  and  was  universally  known  by  the 
name  of  Major  Andre's  tree.  The  common  people  regarded 
it  v/ith  a  mixture  of  respect  and  superstition,  part'lv  out  of  svm- 
pathy  for  the  fate  of  its  ill-starred  namesake,  and  partly  from 
the  tales  of  strange  sights,  and  doleful  lamentations,  told  con- 
cerning it. 

As  Ichabod  approached  this  fearful  tree,  he  be^an  to  whis- 
tle ;  he  thought  his  whistle  was  ansv/ered  :  it  was  but  a  blast 
sweeping  sharply  through  the  dry  branches.  As  he  approached 
a  little  nearer,  he  thought  he  saw  something  white,  hanging 
in  the  midst  of  the  tree  :  he  paused,  and  ceased  whistling  ;  but 
on  looking  more  narrowly,  perceived  that  it  was  a  place  where 
the  tree  had  been  scathed  by  lightning,  and  the  white  wood 
laid  bare.  Suddenly  he  heard  a  groan— his  teeth  chattered, 
and  his  knees  smote  against  the  saddle  :  it  was  but  the  rub- 
bing of  one  huge  bough  upon  another,  as  they  were  swayed 
about  by  the  breeze.  He  passed  the  tree  in  safety,  but  new 
perils  lay  before  him. 


3^4 


WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


About  two  hundred  yards  from  the  tree,  a  small  brook 
crossed  the  road,  and  ran  into  a  marshy  and  thickly-wooded 
glen,  known  by  the  name  of  Wiley's  Swamp.  A  few  rough  logs, 
laid  side  by  side,  served  for  a  bridge  over  this  stream.  On  that 
side  of  the  road  where  the  brook  entered  the  wood,  a  group  of 
oaks  and  chestnuts,  matted  thick  with  wild  grape-vines,  threw 
a  cavernous  gloom  over  it.  To  pass  this  bridge,  was  the  se- 
verest trial.  It  was  at  this  identical  spot  that  the  unfortunate 
Andre  was  captured,  and  under  the  covert  of  those  chestnuts 
and  vines  were  the  sturdy  yeomen  concealed  who  surprised 
him.  This  has  ever  since  been  considered  a  haunted  stream, 
and  fearful  are  the  feelings  of  a  school-boy  who  has  to  pass  it 
alone  after  dark. 

As  he  approached  the  stream,  his  heart  began  to  thump ; 
\xt  summoned  up,  however,  all  his  resolution,  gave  his  horse 
half  a  score  of  kicks  in  the  ribs,  and  attempted  to  dash  briskly 
across  the  bridge  ;  but  instead  of  starting  forward,  the  per- 
verse old  animal  made  a  lateral  movement,  and  ran  broadside 
against  the  fence.  Ichabod,  whose  fears  increased  with  the 
delay,  jerked  the  reins  on  the  other  side,  and  kicked  lustily 
^ith  the  contrary  foot :  it  was  all  in  vain  ;  his  steed  started,  it 
is  true,  but  it  was  only  to  plunge  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  road 
into  a  thicket  of  brambles  and  alder-bushes.  The  school- 
master now  bestowed  both  whip  and  heel  upon  the  starveling 
ribs  of  old  Gunpowder,  who  a«shed  forwards,  snuffling  and 
snorting,  but  came  to  a  stand  just  by  the  bridge,  with  a  sudden- 
ness that  had  nearly  sent  his  riaei  sprawling  over  his  head.  Just 
at  this  moment  a  plashy  tramp  by  the  side  of  the  bridge  caught 
the  sensitive  ear  of  Ichabod.  In  the  dark  shadow  of  the  grove, 
on  the  margin  of  the  brock,  he  beheld  something  huge,  mis- 
shapen, black  and  towering.  It  stirred  not,  but  seemed  gath- 
ered up  in  the  gloom,  like  some  gigantic  monster  ready  to 
spring  upon  the  traveller. 

The  hair  of  the  affrighted  pedagogue  rose  upon  his  head 
with  terror.  What  was  to  be  done  }  To  turn  and  fly  was  now 
too  late ;  and  besides,  what  chance  was  there  of  escaping 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.  365 

ghost  or  goblin,  if  such  it  was,  which  could  ride  upon  the  wings 
of  the  wind  ?  Summoning  up,  therefore,  a  show  of  courage,  he 
demanded  in  stammering  accents — "  Who  are  you  ?  "  He  re- 
ceived no  reply.  He  repeated  his  demand  in  a  still  more 
agitated  voice.  Still  there  was  no  answer.  Once  more  he 
cudgelled  the  sides  of  the  inflexible  Gunpowder,  and  shutting 
his  eyes,  broke  forth  with  involuntary  fervor  into  a  psalm  tune. 
Just  then  the  shadowy  object  of  alarm  put  itself  in  motion,  and 
with  a  scramble  and  a  bound,  stood  at  once  in  the  middle 
of  the  road.  Though  the  night  was  dark  and^  dismal,  yet 
the  form  of  the  unknown  might  now  in  some  degree  be 
ascertained.  He  appeared  to  be  a  horseman  of  large  dimen- 
sions, and  mounted  on  a  black  horse  of  powerful  frame.  He 
made  no  offer  of  molestation  or  sociability,  but  kept  aloof  on 
one  side  of  the  road,  jogging  along  on  the  blind  side  of 
old  Gunpowder,  who  had  now  got  over  his  fright  and  wayward- 
ness. 

Ichabod,  who  had  no  relish  for  this  strange  midnight  com- 
panion, and  bethought  himself  of  the  adventure  of  Brom  Bones 
with  the  galloping  Hessian,  now  quickened  his  steed,  in  hopes 
of  leaving  him  behind.  The  stranger,  however,  quickened  his 
horse  to  an  equal  -^ace.  Ichabod  pulled  up,  and  fell  into  a 
walk,  thinking  to  lag  behind — the  other  did  the  same.  His 
heart  began  to  sink  wiihin  him;  he  endeavored  to  resume 
his  psalm  tune,  but  his  parched  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of 
his  mouth,  and  he  could  lot  utter  a  stave.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  moody  and  Jogged  silence  of  this  pertinacious 
companion,  that  was  mys  erious  and  appalling.  It  was  soon 
fearfully  accounted  for.  )n  mounting  a  rising  ground,  which 
brought  the  figure  of  his  fellow-traveller  in  relief  against  the 
sky,  gigantic  in  height,  and  muffled  in  a  cloak,  Ichabod  was 
horror-struck,  on  perceiving  that  he  was  headless  !  but  his 
horror  was  still  more  increased,  on  observing  that  the  head, 
which  should  have  rested  on  his  shoulders,  was  carried  before 
him  on  the  pommel  of  his  saddle  !  His  terror  rose  to  desper- 
ation ;  he  rained  a  shower  of  kicks  and  blows  upon  Gunpowder^ 


366  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

hoping,  by  a  sudden  movement,  to  give  his  companion  the 
slip — but  the  spectre  started  full  jump  with  him.  Away,  then, 
they  dashed  through  thick  and  thin  ;  stones  flying  and  sparks 
flashing  at  every  bound.  Ichabod's  flimsy  garments  fluttered 
in  the  air,  as  he  stretched  his  long  lank  body  away  over  his 
horse's  head,  in  the  eagerness  of  his  flight. 

They  had  now  reached  the  road  which  turns  off  to  Sleepy 
Hollow  ;  but  Gunpowder,  who  seemed  possessed  with  a  demon? 
instead  of  keeping  up  it,  made  an  opposite  turn,  and  plunged 
headlong  down  hill  to  the  left.  This  road  leads  through  a 
sandy  hollow,  shaded  by  trees  for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile, 
where  it  crosses  the  bridge  famous  in  goblin  story  •  and  just 
beyond  swells  the  green  knoll  on  which  stands  the  white- 
washed church. 

As  yet  the  panic  of  the  steed  had  given  his  unskilful  rider 
an  apparent  advantage  in  the  chase  ;  but  just  as  he  had  got 
half-way  through  the  hollow,  the  girths  of  the  saddle  gave  way, 
and  he  felt  it  slipping  from  under  him.  He  seized  it  by  the 
pommel,  and  endeavored  to  hold  it  firm,  but  in  vain  ;  and  had 
just  time  to  save  himself  by  clasping  old  Gunpowder  round 
the  neck,  whien  the  saddle  fell  to  the  earth,  and  he  heard  it 
trampled  under  foot  by  his  pursuer.  For  a  moment  the  terror 
of  Hans  Van  Ripper's  wrath  passed  across  his  mind — for  it 
was  his  Sunday  saddle  ;  but  this  was  no  time  for  petty  fears  ; 
the  goblin  was  hard  on  his  haunches  ;  and  (unskilful  rider  that 
he  was !)  he  had  much  ado  to  maintain  his  seat ;  sometimes 
slipping  on  one  side,  sometimes  on  another,  and  sometimes 
jolted  on  the  high  ridge  of  his  horse's  backbone,  with  ^ 
violence  that  he  verily  feared  would  cleave  him  asunder. 

An  opening  in  the  trees  now  cheered  him  with  the  hopes 
that  the  church  bridge  was  at  hand.  The  wavering  reflection 
of  a  silver  star  in  the  bosom  of  the  brook  told  him  that  he  was 
not  mistaken.  He  saw  the  walls  of  the  church  dimly  glaring 
under  the  trees  beyond.  He  recollected  the  place  where  Brom 
Bones'  ghostly  competitor  had  disappeared.  If  I  can  but 
<*each  that  bridge,"  thought  Ichabod,  "  I  am  safe."   Just  then 


SKETCIf~BO^  K  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA  YON,  GENT.  367 

fee  heard  the  black  steed  panting  and  blowing  close  behind 
him  ;  he  even  fancied  that  he  felt  his  hot  breath.  Another 
convulsive  kick  in  ths  ribs,  and  old  Gunpowder  sprung  upon 
the  bridge  ;  he  thundered  over  the  resounding  planks  •  he 
gained  the  opposite  side,  and  now  Ichabod  cast  a  look  behind 
to  see  it  his  pursuer  should  vanish,  according  to  rule,  in  a 
flash  of  fire  and  brimstone.  Just  then  he  saw  the  goblin 
rising  in  his  stirrups,  and  in  the  very  act  of  hurling  his  head 
at  him.  Ichabod  endeavored  to  dodge  the  horrible  missile, 
but  too  late.  It  encountered  his  cranium  with  a  tremendous 
crash — he  was  tumbled  headlong  into  the  dust,  and  Gun- 
powder, the  black  steed,  and  the  goblin  rider,  passed  by  like  a 
whirlwind. 

The  next  morning  the  old  horse  was  found  without  his  sad- 
dle, and  with  the  bridle  under  his  feet,  soberly  cropping  the 
grass  at  his  master's  gate.  Ichabod  did  not  make  his  appear^ 
ance  at  breakfast—dinner-hour  came,  but  no  Ichabod.  The 
boys  assembled  at  the  school-house,  and  strolled  idly  about 
the  banks  of  the  brook  ;  but  no  schoolmaster.  Hans  Van  Rip> 
per  now  began  to  feel  some  uneasiness  about  the  fate  of  poor 
Ichabod,  and  his  saddle.  An  inquiry  was  set  on  foot,  and 
after  diligent  investigation  they  came  upon  his  traces.  In  one 
part  of  the  road  leading  to  the  church,  was  found  the  saddle 
trampled  in  the  dirt ;  the  tracks  of  horses'  hoofs  deeply  dented 
in  the  road,  and,  evidently  at  furious  speed,  were  traced  to 
the  bridge,  beyond  which,  on  the  bank  of  a  broad  part  of  the 
brook,  where  the  water  ran  deep  and  black,  was  found  the  hat 
of  the  unfortunate  Ichabod,  and  close  beside  it  a  shattered 
pumpkin. 

The  brook  was  searched,  but  the  body  of  the  schoolmaster 
was  not  to  be  discovered.  Hans  Van  Ripper,  as  executor  of 
his  estate,  examined  the  bundle  which  contained  a!l  his 
worldly  effects.  They  consisted  of  two  shirts  and  a  half ; 
two  stocks  for  the  neck  ;  a  pair  or  two  of  worsted  stockings ; 
an  old  pair  of  corduroy  small-clothes  ;  a  rusty  razor  ;  a  book 
01  psalm  tunes  full  of  dog's  ears  ;  and  a  broken  pitch-pip«. 


y68  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

As  to  the  books  and  furniture  of  the  schoolhouse,  they  bC" 
longed  to  the  community,  excepting  Cotton  Mather's  History 
of  Witchcraft,  a  New  England  Ahnanac,  and  a  book  of  dreams 
and  fortune-telling  ;  in  which  last  was  a  sheet  of  foolscap  mucii 
scribbled  and  blotted,  by  several  fruitless  attempts  to  make  a 
copy  of  verses  in  honor  of  the  heiress  of  Van  Tassel.  These 
magic  books  and  the  poetic  scrawl  were  forthwith  consigned 
to  the  flames  by  Hans  Van  Ripper ;  who,  from  that  time  for- 
ward, determined  to  send  his  children  no  more  to  school  ; 
observing  that  he  never  knew  any  good  come  of  this  same 
reading  and  writing.  Whatever  money  the  schoolmaster  pos- 
sessed, and  he  had  received  his  quarter's  pay  but  a  day  or  two 
before,  he  must  have  had  about  his  person  at  the  time  of  his 
disappearance. 

The  mysterious  event  caused  much  speculation  at  the 
church  on  the  following  Sunday.  Knots  of  gazers  and  gossips 
were  collected  in  the  churchyard,  at  the  bridge,  and  at  the 
spot  where  the  hat  and  pumpkin  had  been  found.  The  stories 
of  Brouwer,  of  Bones,  and  a  whole  budget  of  others,  were  called 
to  mind  ;  and  when  they  had  diligently  considered  them  all, 
and  compared  them  with  the  symptoms  of  the  present  case^ 
they  shook  their  heads,  and  came  to  the  conclusion,  that 
Ichabod  had  been  carried  off  by  the  galloping  Hessian.  As 
he  was  a  bachelor,  and  in  nobody's  debt,  nobody  troubled  his 
head  any  more  about  him  ;  the  school  was  removed  to  a 
different  quarter  of  the  Hollow,  and  another  pedagogue 
reigned  in  his  stead. 

It  is  true,  an  old  farmer,  who  had  been  down  to  New  York 
on  a  visit  several  years  after,  and  from  whom  this  account  ot 
the  ghostly  adventure  was  received,  brought  home  the  intel- 
ligence that  Ichabod  Crane  was  still  alive  ;  that  he  had  left  the 
neighborhood  partly  through  fear  of  the  goblin  and  Hans  Van 
Ripper,  and  partly  in  mortification  at  having  been  suddenly 
dismissed  by  the  heiress  ;  that  he  had  changed  his  quarters  to 
a  distant  part  of  the  country  ;  had  kept  school  and  studied  law 
at  the  same  time  ;  had  been  admitted  to  the  bar ;  turned 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRA\02^\  GENT. 

politician  ;  electioneered  ;  written  for  the  newspapers  ;  and 
tinaliy,  iiad  been  made  a  Justice  of  the  Ten  Pound  Court, 
Brom  Bones,  too,  who,  shortly  after  his  rival's  disappearance^ 
conducted  the  blooming  Katrina  in  triumph  to  the  altar,  was 
observed  to  look  exceedingly  knowing  whenever  the  story  of 
Ichaboci^  /as  related,  and  always  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh  at 
the  mention  or  the  pumpkin  ;  which  led  some  to  suspect  that 
he  knew  more  about  the  matter  than  he  chose  to  tell. 

The  old  country  wives,  however,  who  are  the  best  judges 
of  these  matters,  maintain  to  this  day,  that  Ichabod  was^spirited 
away  by  supernatural  means  ;  and  it  is  a  favorite  story  often 
told  about  the  neighborhood  roun.d  the  winter  evening  fire. 
The  bridge  became  more  than  ever  an  object  of  superstitious 
awe  ;  and  that  may  be  the  reason  why  the  road  has  been  al- 
tered of  late  years,  so  as  to  approach  the  church  by  the  border 
of  the  mill-pond.  The  school-house  being  deserted,  soon  fell 
to  decay,  and  was  reported  to  be  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  the 
unfortunate  pedagogue  ;  and  the  plough-boy,  loitering  home- 
ward of  a  still  summer  evening,  has  often  fancied  his  voice  at 
a  distance,  chanting  a  melancholy  psalm  tune  among  the  tran- 
quil solitudes  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

24 


70 


WORKS  OF  WASHWGTOi^  IRVING. 


POSTSCRIPT, 

FOUND  IN  THE  HANDWRITING  OF  Mfe.  KNUCKERBOCKER. 

The  preceding  Tale  is  given,  almost  in  the  precise  words 
in  which  I  heard  it  related  at  a  Corporation  meeting  of  the 
ancient  city  of  the  Manhattoes,^^  at  which  were  present  many 
of  its  sagest  and  most  illustrious  burghers.  The  narrator  was 
a  pleasant,  shabby,  gentlemanly  old  fellow  in  pepper-and-salt 
clothes,  with  a  sadly  humorous  face  ;  and  one  whom  I  strongly 
suspected  of  being  poor — he  made  such  efforts  to  be  entertain- 
ing. When  his  story  was  concluded  there  was  much  laughter 
and  approbation,  particularly  from  two  or  three  deputy  aider- 
men,  who  had  been  asleep  the  greater  part  of  the  time.  There 
was,  however,  one  tall,  dry-looking  old  gentleman,  with  beet- 
ling eye-brows,  who  maintained  a  grave  and  rather  severe  face 
throughout ;  now  and  then  folding  his  arms,  inclining  his  head, 
and  looking  down  upon  the  floor,  as  if  turning  a  doubt  over 
in  his  mind.  He  was  one  of  your  wary  men,  who  never  laugh 
but  upon  good  grounds — when  they  have  reason  and  the  law 
on  their  side.  When  the  mirth  of  the  rest  of  the  company 
had  subsided,  and  silence  was  restored,  he  leaned  one  arm  on 
the  elbow  of  his  chair,  and  sticking  the  other  a-kimbo,  de- 
manded, with  a  slight  but  exceedingly  sage  motion  of  the  head, 
and  contraction  of  the  brow,  what  was  the  moral  of  the  story, 
and  what  it  went  to  prove. 

The  story-teller,  who  was  just  putting  a  glass  of  wine  to 
his  lips,  as  a  refreshment  after  his  toils,  paused  for  a  moment, 

*  New  York. 


SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT,  371 

Jooked  at  his  inquirer  with  an  air  of  infinite  deference,  and 
lowering  the  glass  slowly  to  the  table,  observed  that  the  story 
was  intended  most  logically  to  prove  : — 

"  That  there  is  no  situation  in  life  but  has  its  advantages 
and  pleasures — provided  we  will  but  take  a  joke  as  we  find  it : 

^'  That,  therefore,  he  that  runs  races  with  goblin  troopers, 
is  likely  to  have  rough  riding  of  it : 

Ergo,  for  a  country  schoolmaster  to  be  refused  the  hand 
of  a  Dutch  heiress,  is  a  certain  step  to  high  preferment  in  the 
state/' 

The  cautious  old  gentleman  knit  his  brows  tenfold  closer 
after  this  explanation,  being  sorely  puzzled  by  the  ratiocina- 
tion of  the  syllogism  ;  while,  methought,  the  one  in  pepper- 
and-salt  eyed  him  with  something  of  a  trit^mphant  leer.  At 
length  he  observed,  that  all  this  was  very  well,  but  still  he 
thought  the  story  a  little  on  the  extravagant — there  were  one 
or  two  points  on  which  he  had  his  doubts  : 

"  Faith,  sir,"  replied  the  story-teller.  "  as  to  that  matter, 
I  <ion't  believe  one-half  of  it  myself/' 


UENVOY. 

Go,  little  booke,  God  send  thee  good  passage. 
And  specially  let  this  be  ^hy  prayere, 
Unto  them  all  that  thee  will  read  or  hear, 
Where  thou  art  wrong,  after  their  help  to  call, 
Thee  to  correct,  in  any  part  or  all. 

Chaucer's  Bell  Dame  sans  Mercie. 

In  concluding  a  second  volume  of  the  Sketch-Book,  the  Au- 
thor cannot  but  express  his  deep  sense  of  the  indulgence  with 
which  his  first  has  been  received,  and  of  the  liberal  disposition 
that  has  been  evinced  to  treat  him  with  kindness  as  a  stran- 
ger. Even  the  critics,  whatever  may  be  said  of  them  by  oth- 
ers, he  has  found  to  be  a  singularly  gentle  and  good-natured 
race  ;  it  is  true  that  each  has  in  turn  objected  to  some  one  or 
two  articles,  and  that  these  individual  exceptions,  taken  in 
the  aggregate,  would  amount  almost  to  a  total  condemnation 
of  his  work ;  but  then  he  has  been  consoled  by  observing, 
that  what  one  has  particularly  censured,  another  has  as  partic- 
ularly praised  :  and  thus,  the  encomiums  being  set  off  against 
the  objections,  he  finds  his  work,  upon  the  whole,  commended 
far  beyond  its  deserts. 

He  is  aware  that  he  runs  a  risk  of  forfeiting  much  of  this 
kind  favor  by  not  following  the  counsel  that  has  been  liberally 
bestowed  upon  him  ;  for  where  abundance  of  valuable  advicej 
is  given  gratis,  it  may  seem  a  man's  own  fault  if  he  should  go 
astray.  He  only  can  say,  in  his  vindication,  that  he  faithfully 
determined,  for  a  time,  to  govern  himself  in  his  second  volume 
by  the  opinions  passed  upon  his  first;  but  he  was  sooa 
brought  to  a  stand  by  the  contrariety  of  excellent  counsel. 


SRE'IVH-BOO  ^'  OF  tEOFFRRY  CRA  YON,  tsrENT.  37^^ 

One  kindly  advised  him  to  avoid  the  ludicrous  ;  another,  to 
shun  tlie  pathetic  ;  a  third  assured  him  that  he  was  tolerable 
ai  description,  but  cautioned  him  to  leave  narrative  alore  ; 
while  a  fourth  declared  that  he  had  a  very  pretty  knack  at 
turning  a  story,  and  was  really  entertaining  when  in  pensive 
mood,  but  w^as  grievously  mistaken  if  he  imagined  himself  to 
possess  a  spark  of  humor. 

Thus  perplexed  by  the  advice  of  his  friends,  who  each 
in  turn  closed  some  particular  path,  but  left  him  all  the 
world  beside  to  range  i^,  he  found  that  to  follow  all  their 
counsels  would,  in  fact,  be  to  stand  still.  He  remained  for  a 
time  sadly  embarrassed  j  when,  all  at  once,  the  thought  struck 
i.im  t3  ramble  on  as  he  had  begun  ;  that  his  work  being  mis- 
cellaneous, and  written  for  different  humors,  it  could  not  be 
expected  that  anyone  would  be  pleased  with  the  whole  ;  but 
Uiat  if  it  should  contain  something  to  suit  each  reader,  his 
end  would  be  completely  answered.  Few  guests  sit  down  to 
a  varied  table  with  an  equal  appetite  for  every  dish.  One 
has  an  elegant  horror  of  a  roasted  pig  ;  another  hoMs  a 
curry  or  a  devil  in  utter  abomination  ;  a  third  cannot  tolerate 
the  ancient  flavor  of  venison  and  wild  fowl  ;  and  a  fourth, 
ot  truly  mascuHne  stomach,  looks  with  sovereign  contempt 
on  those  knicknacks,  here  and  there  dished  up  for  the  ladies. 
Thus  each  article  is  condemned  in  its  turn  ;  and  yet,  amidst 
this  variety  of  appetites,  seldom  does  a  dish  go  away  from  the 
table  without  being  tasted  and  relished  by  some  one  or  other 
of  the  guests. 

With  these  considerations  he  ventures  to  serve  up  this 
second  .  olume  in  the  same  heterogeneous  way  with  his  first  ; 
simply  requesting  the  reader,  if  he  should  find  here  and  there 
something  to  please  him,  to  rest  assured  that  it  was  written 
expressly  for  intelligent  readers  like  himself  ;  but  entreating 
him,  should  he  find  anything  to  dislike,  to  tolerate  it,  as  one 
of  those  articles  which  the  Author  has  been  obliged  to  write 
for  readers  a  of  a  less  refined  tste. 

To  be  serious. — The  Author  is  conscious  of  the  numer- 


374  WORKS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

Oils  faults  and  imperfections  of  his  work  ;  and  Avell  aware^ 
now  little  he  is  disciplined  and  accomplished  in  the  arts  ot 
authorship.  His  deficiencies  are  also  increased  by  a  diffi- 
dence arising  from  his  peculiar  situation.  He  finds  himself 
writing  in  a  strange  land,  and  appearing  before  a  public 
which  he  has  been  accustomed,  from  childhood,  to  regard 
with  the  highest  feelings  of  awe  and  reverence.  He  is  full  of 
solicitude  to  deserve  their  approbation,  yet  finds  that  very 
solicitude  continually  embarrassing  his  powers,  and  depriving 
liim  of  that  ease  andconfidence  which  are  necessary  to  success* 
ful  exertion.  Still  the  kindness  with  which  he  is  treated  en- 
courages him  to  go  on,  hoping  chat  in  time  he  may  acquire 
a  steadier  footing  ;  and  thus  he  proceeds,  half-ventunng,  half- 
shrinking,  surprised  at  his  own  good  fortune,  and  wondenuj^ 
at  nis  own  temeritj , 


